![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Who| R/Eponine, R/Howard [CLOSED]
What| R is guilted into handing over what little food he has to Eponine. Later he then runs into Howard and sets off the gift shop alarm like a scrub.
Where| Level 1 – Eponine delivery. Level 2/gift shop and elevator area for Howard.
When| Very early Week 1,
Warnings/Notes| Nothing so far
Eponine
He guesses it’s almost night when he sneaks into the elevator. Before it hadn’t mattered much: he’d shuffled, looked up every now and then, and it didn’t mean a thing if the sun was out or the moon was cold in the sky. It was what it was. Un-life did its thing. Now it suddenly seemed to matter. The darkness meant more cover, meant maybe if he couldn’t see the other Tributes, they couldn’t see him either.
Hopefully Eponine’s still there.
The mezzanine at night is…creepy. Let’s just get it out of the way: it’s plain creepy. Shadows have grown even larger and maybe it’s because he used to be a zombie, but he keeps expecting to see them shift and groan and drip blood. The dust on the floor’s been disturbed, other people have been through here, and R catches himself wondering if she could’ve gotten caught by the other Tributes between now and then. It’s possible. He’s eaten Eponine: he knows she’s not much of a fighter. Praying he’s wrong, R creeps toward the row of posters and stands there. His hand dips into his pajama’s pocket where the donut sits, squished and a little stale, flakes of glazed sugar stuck against the cotton. Still there. At least he didn’t somehow lose it.
He turns on the spot, his other hand in his pocket because he’s not sure what to do with it. It’s still awkward like that, compared to when he’d been Dead. Back then it was either let them flop at your sides or you held them up to grab people. Now what? Clear his throat? Wait for an hour?
"Eponine?" He braves a whisper. It sounds too loud in the dark. "It's me, you there?"
Howard Bassem
It’s Day 2 and this time R’s counting compared to the last Arenas. He can’t read any of the signs or the maps but he can still do basic counting up to a certain point and he’s on Day 2 of his first Arena as human. His stomach flip-flops, aches for that donut he gave away, and his throat feels dry. Thirsty. He’s thirsty, R thinks, which is a new sensation that he had trouble identifying the first time it happened. This new body of his is downright demanding compared to his old one: it wants human food, water, sleep, has headaches for no reason he can tell. His arms and legs fell asleep when he curled up behind a display, trying to keep his feet from poking out and betraying his position.
Apparently marble tiles don’t make for a good night’s sleep.
They’re still tingly after R wakes up in the morning, gray light filtering through curtains drawn over the windows. He had a scare at first when he tried to uncurl, his spine corpse-stiff, and realized he couldn’t feel his hands. Jesus, did I die again? was his first panicked thought. Is the Cure rejecting me? Then the pain hit as blood circulated. No choice but to ride it out and wonder if that was normal for a Living boy.
Now he’s up and about, trying to figure out what he should do for today. Look for more food for Eponine, he guesses, and something for himself. Now that he’s alive, he can’t just coast for weeks on a bite of hot flesh here and there. So food first. Find the others. Try to stay alive. Hope he does better here than he did by that river that got him infected in the first place. Don’t make those mistakes again. Too bad he doesn’t remember what those mistakes were, but, you know. It’s the thought that counts.
He must’ve done something right between yesterday and today because the elevator dings and it opens with a present. A sponsor package sits there. No one steps out. R waits for someone to rush out and claim it, his heart doing a number in his chest all over again. Silence. Looking left and right, feeling oddly guilty, he hurries over to it and crouches, his fingers fumbling with the wrapping. A note in glitter pen flutters to the floor.
Howard can find R crouched over with his back to the rest of second floor, still wrestling with his sponsor gift.
What| R is guilted into handing over what little food he has to Eponine. Later he then runs into Howard and sets off the gift shop alarm like a scrub.
Where| Level 1 – Eponine delivery. Level 2/gift shop and elevator area for Howard.
When| Very early Week 1,
Warnings/Notes| Nothing so far
Eponine
He guesses it’s almost night when he sneaks into the elevator. Before it hadn’t mattered much: he’d shuffled, looked up every now and then, and it didn’t mean a thing if the sun was out or the moon was cold in the sky. It was what it was. Un-life did its thing. Now it suddenly seemed to matter. The darkness meant more cover, meant maybe if he couldn’t see the other Tributes, they couldn’t see him either.
Hopefully Eponine’s still there.
The mezzanine at night is…creepy. Let’s just get it out of the way: it’s plain creepy. Shadows have grown even larger and maybe it’s because he used to be a zombie, but he keeps expecting to see them shift and groan and drip blood. The dust on the floor’s been disturbed, other people have been through here, and R catches himself wondering if she could’ve gotten caught by the other Tributes between now and then. It’s possible. He’s eaten Eponine: he knows she’s not much of a fighter. Praying he’s wrong, R creeps toward the row of posters and stands there. His hand dips into his pajama’s pocket where the donut sits, squished and a little stale, flakes of glazed sugar stuck against the cotton. Still there. At least he didn’t somehow lose it.
He turns on the spot, his other hand in his pocket because he’s not sure what to do with it. It’s still awkward like that, compared to when he’d been Dead. Back then it was either let them flop at your sides or you held them up to grab people. Now what? Clear his throat? Wait for an hour?
"Eponine?" He braves a whisper. It sounds too loud in the dark. "It's me, you there?"
Howard Bassem
It’s Day 2 and this time R’s counting compared to the last Arenas. He can’t read any of the signs or the maps but he can still do basic counting up to a certain point and he’s on Day 2 of his first Arena as human. His stomach flip-flops, aches for that donut he gave away, and his throat feels dry. Thirsty. He’s thirsty, R thinks, which is a new sensation that he had trouble identifying the first time it happened. This new body of his is downright demanding compared to his old one: it wants human food, water, sleep, has headaches for no reason he can tell. His arms and legs fell asleep when he curled up behind a display, trying to keep his feet from poking out and betraying his position.
Apparently marble tiles don’t make for a good night’s sleep.
They’re still tingly after R wakes up in the morning, gray light filtering through curtains drawn over the windows. He had a scare at first when he tried to uncurl, his spine corpse-stiff, and realized he couldn’t feel his hands. Jesus, did I die again? was his first panicked thought. Is the Cure rejecting me? Then the pain hit as blood circulated. No choice but to ride it out and wonder if that was normal for a Living boy.
Now he’s up and about, trying to figure out what he should do for today. Look for more food for Eponine, he guesses, and something for himself. Now that he’s alive, he can’t just coast for weeks on a bite of hot flesh here and there. So food first. Find the others. Try to stay alive. Hope he does better here than he did by that river that got him infected in the first place. Don’t make those mistakes again. Too bad he doesn’t remember what those mistakes were, but, you know. It’s the thought that counts.
He must’ve done something right between yesterday and today because the elevator dings and it opens with a present. A sponsor package sits there. No one steps out. R waits for someone to rush out and claim it, his heart doing a number in his chest all over again. Silence. Looking left and right, feeling oddly guilty, he hurries over to it and crouches, his fingers fumbling with the wrapping. A note in glitter pen flutters to the floor.
Howard can find R crouched over with his back to the rest of second floor, still wrestling with his sponsor gift.
no subject
It's the best start to an Arena Howard's ever had. Willow is holed up somewhere, and now Howard's getting the lay of the land floor by floor. When he hears a ding from the elevator - a different ding, he realizes, than what he heard when he exited the elevator the first time - he creeps over from behind a diorama of African ungulates and waits to see if anyone comes for it.
He could rush for it, grab it and hit the 'close doors' button on the elevator, but he'd still have to go somewhere - and if found when the doors opened with a good in one hand, he could very well be in trouble. He decides to wait and watch, instead; he really has all he needs between the knife and the food he got at the cafeteria.
The only thing he hasn't had is sleep. He hasn't been able to rest until he's aware of all of the places a Tribute could pop out of on this floor, and that means exploring. It also means taking weapons off the wax figures and hiding them, which, given how heavy some of them are, has been no simple task. The white leg on Howard's rabbit pajamas is dusty now from having crawled all over; his Donatello-shell backpack is loaded down with daggers.
He doesn't even recognize the figure that stumbles over for a few moments, until R turns with the canister in his hands and those fingers only half-pumped with blood fumbling at the wrapping. Howard chooses that moment to step out from behind a taxidermied kudu.
"Rob?"
no subject
R jumps at the voice, jerking his head up as if he's been caught face deep in someone's rib cage and they weren't even done dying yet. Guilt swarms across him, his face flushes red from his own blood instead of someone else's and he whips around, dropping the package. It clatters to the floor, whatever's inside it heavy enough to hit the tiles with a metallic ring that echoes off the walls.
"Howard!" R blurts, gapes (bad habit), and gets to his feet, all in one motion. Compared to his zombie days, he's moving at lightning speed now.
He stares. What is...Howard wearing? It's fleecy, fluffy and there seems to be an ongoing bunny theme. Trying to take it all in a stride, R stoops to collect the half-opened package and heads over to Howard without checking left and right for attacking Tributes who could've been drawn to the noise. Lucky for them they seem to be minding their own business, wherever they are. R looks Howard up and down, something that could be a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It's been awhile since they shared Christmas over old vinyl and hugging the toilet for dear life (okay, so that part was mostly him), and he can still remember Howard's fingers massaging his scalp into control under the hot water. Funny how memories are when you're alive. Even the vomiting didn't seem too bad in retrospect.
He adjusts the package in his arm, the top of what might be a crowbar poking out. "Was this yours?"
R holds out his sponsor's gift, his expression open, trusting, and above all, pink. Compared to his old tone, he looks positively saturated with life now from his hair to his hands.
no subject
In fact, they probably did. But Howard eventually relaxes and rushes over to R, shuffling his feet so there's no slap of bare heel against the ground. He starts dragging R to the diorama of the gazelle, going "come on, out of plain sight..."
When they're finally adjusted, Howard crouches down behind a taxidermied lioness and takes a look at R. Even in the dim light, he can see the flush to R's cheeks, the green tint in his blue eyes that was previously absent. He actually reaches out and touches R's hair, and it's thinner than it was before, but soft. Shampoo-commercial soft. That, and a rich color that Howard's never seen on an old corpse before.
He glances down at the canister and the tag with a single legible letter. Howard realizes he could lie and say the package is his, but that he doesn't, in fact, want to. In a more trying Arena, it would be tempting, but R's one of his best friends and while lying to a friend is very much within Howard's bailiwick, he isn't sure about stealing from them.
"Welcome to the land of the living," Howard whispers, then giggles silently, the smile on his face carrying the laughter his voice can't.
no subject
He likes the way Howard's hand felt running through his hair. It felt like it was happening to him, not just from the distance. From the look on the little guy's face, he guesses he approves.
"Hi," R says and grins, flashing teeth that aren't perfect but they're not as awful as they were with scraps of people stuck between them. His smile isn't twitching around the edges, flashing across his face. His pupils even remember to dilate and contract these days. "Looks like the Cure worked after all."
If it was up to him, he'd just camp out this floor and brave the stuffed animals here if it meant hanging close to Howard. No idea if that's a him-thing or a zombie-thing to want to cling to what he knows. Exchanging looks with Howard, he lays the package down, working on getting the rest of it out. It doesn't take too long, maybe less than a minute.
The crowbar he recognizes intimately. He hasn't used one before that he can remember, but these were - are - popular even years into the zombie apocalypse. The whole sturdy, no-reloading required was probably a big sell to the Living. R looks puzzled by the tins that were packaged neatly along with the crowbar, passing them to Howard to see if he recognizes anything. It's natural to share, in his mind. It doesn't occur to him there could be a mental tally of who owes who, even between friends.
He waits, his smile fading. "You think the others are okay?" R finally whispers, still folded over into an awkward crouch and almost close enough to bump heads with Howard. Have you killed anyone remains unasked, but he's thinking that too. There would've been plenty of time for Howard to rig one of those death traps of his, he bets.
no subject
It's not something he wants to dwell on at the moment. He slouches down so the lioness is propping just his head and shoulders and pulls R closer to the dirt - it's not difficult, R doesn't have the reflexes to protest much. He can't help but take a look at R's new and improved form. R's gotten flush and warm and downright handsome.
Warm. As Howard places his hand on R's shoulder, he realizes how strange it is that R has body heat now.
"Check this out," Howard says, when he's done checking R out. He zips open the backpack and thrusts his arm in up to the shoulder, rummaging around until his hand closes on something heavy, smooth and spherical. He extracts it and holds it out to R.
Inside a sphere of glass, little ceramic R and Julie stand holding hands. Julie has a camera around her neck, hanging over her chest. R's in his hoodie; whatever machine painted the ceramics even bothered to smudge some dirt on R's trademark outfit.
It's not that Howard necessarily likes R and Julie together - in a way, he's irritated that Julie's pulling R away from him - but he knows R wants to feel human. Wants to feel as though the things Living people get are possible for him. Someone who's thrilled as he was to take his first piss needs to hold onto the idea that love transcends corpsiness.
"You look a lot better than that now," he says, looking from the painted, grey, corpse-like R to the Living one next to him now. "And you sound way better."
no subject
He tilts his head as Howard fishes around in his backpack, eyes flicking up to the kid’s face and enjoying that when he sees emotion flickering across it, he doesn’t get that feeling like he’s being left behind. What is it? A weapon? Food? It’s got to be food, it’s -
A snowglobe, apparently. R’s eyes light up as his mouth parts in a pleased “o”, his hand reaching out on its own to touch the glass’s curves as he settles it in his lap. He’d lost days to these, cradling them against his chest as he leaned back in his 747 and watched the fake snow swirling, drifting to land on the figures – angels, horses, houses – and settling. It’s when he looks closer that he really gets a surprise, his eyebrows shooting up. It’s Julie and him in miniature, the camera insanely detailed, the hoodie looking almost…real. His fingers caress along the glass and the base as he smiles, not even realizing he’s doing it, his head jerking up at Howard’s voice and remembering he’s not alone.
He loves it. R clears his throat, forgetting about sounds like that carrying, and smiles. “Now I can keep up.”
Silence falls, comfortable, a little strange now that they’re both alive and breathing, and R for once can’t smell that pulse running along Howard’s scrawny neck. It used to be a little cheat to tell him how he felt: it raced, ebbed, slowed. Now he needs to rely on the normal Living senses to tell him what’s what in Howard Bassem’s world today. When he looks at Howard, he sees the cheekbones, chapped lips he keeps picking at, bright eyes that someone who wasn’t his friend would call beady.
R hugs the snowglobe in his lap, leaning forward. “Uh, so. Tips on Arena survival? Anything I can do to help out?”
It doesn’t even cross his mind that it could very well be Howard and him left. That there might be a limit to how far their friendship goes.
no subject
In a way, Howard hopes he doesn't. Not because he wants a risk, but because Howard likes to imagine himself as R's guardian angel, and that's a difficult role to assume with someone who's actually competent.
This all means Howard is in charge, which isn't a role he's uncomfortable with. If there's one thing he trusts, it's his survival instincts, and he's been fine directing Orc and Eponine and Pruna in the past. "Stay quiet. Don't knock anything over. And do what I tell you."
Simple enough rules, although ones that will need constant modification. Howard wonders how much of R's brain has been rejuvenated and thus, how much R will be capable of retaining. Maybe R's normal human smart now, just needing to get caught up on reading and writing and all that jazz. Maybe he needs a little time to get his neurons all oiled up. Maybe some dead things don't come back.
Who knows?
Howard gestures with his hand that they should get up and head to the gift shop, remembering where some thermoses are in his head. So far the water's been easily available, but for all he knows they'll soon replace it with whatever burning liquid they put into the sprinklers. He's been filling up thermoses from the sink and stashing them inside the vents, preparing for when the proverbial dehydrated shit hits the fan.
"You seen any of our people?"
no subject
Wait, didn't they break it off? R suddenly realizes that when Howard says "our people", he might not mean his ex-girlfriend anymore. Little bit awkward.
Relieved to have a plan of action, R gets up. He unfolds legs that feel longer, more limber, and practically bounces to his feet without looking around for anyone lurking in the shadows beyond the display. He'd never had to when he was Dead. Between the snowglobe, the crowbar and what he thinks might be water from the sound of sloshing, his hands are full. So far he's breaking several Arena survival rules without even realizing it.
Now that Howard's here, R feels...decent. This time he doesn't need Howard to hold his hand while he pukes his guts up or figures out peeing again. He holds his head higher as he steps out into the open, his bare feet cold against the marble tile. To his credit, he doesn't slap them down like he had earlier - that said, he's still downright noisy compared to Howard as he walks with the too-long strides of someone still getting their Living legs under them again.
"What're we looking for?" R keeps his voice to a low whisper as they reach the gift shop. The signs are still a mystery, the letters swirls and lines. Stuffed animals, blankets of Karis Needleteeth; he thinks he spots a calender with Tribute glamor shots and wonders if this is before or after Howard came to the Capitol. The kid doesn't seem like he'd be the type to photograph well.
no subject
"Look for anything useful," Howard says, then realizes how utterly useless that is to R as a directive. He runs his hand over his scalp and chews his lip. He knows what's useful, because when he looks at a household object he sees potential, sees a web of possibilities linking it to other things, but he can't explain how he knows those things. He certainly can't expect R to. "See if you can find novelty shoelaces."
The museum will be closing in five minutes, says the intercom. At least it isn't announcing the deaths yet. While Howard is a big fan of the new increased information, he still can't totally keep the squeamish part of him at bay with even his affinity for tactics. He wants to just check people off, but the truth is he's still certain he'll hear a friend's name each time.
Howard slips through the aisles, letting his fingertips touch each object as if he's introducing himself to it by his skin. A row of bobbleheads ranging from Sandy Marko to Venus Dee Milo nod their heads, set off by the impact of even their softest footsteps. Howard grabs one of Wyatt and shoves it in his backpack, intending to use such a sensitive thing as a sort of alarm (besides, wouldn't he love to believe Wyatt was watching over him?).
In the clothing aisle, T-shirts exist for all the favorites and all the Capitol's darling couples - including one of him and Eponine. He grabs a hoodie much too large for him, a red one styled like R's trademark one, and passes it over a rack of clothes to his zombie friend.
no subject
He hurries after, not even listening to the intercom. Thanks to his new coordination, it only takes a few long strides to catch up to Howard, R trailing a step of so behind and feeling decent so far because shoelaces shouldn’t be that hard to find: he remembers what they look like, no problem.
Howard disappears behind shelves, dwarfed by rows of stuffed animals and souvenir coffee cups. It’s not even conscious, he realizes, pausing to watch. It’s like second nature. Howard squirms in, doesn’t even brush against the corners or trip on anything. There’s a certain kind of grace to the way Howard sneaks and shimmies and does it all silently. R’s a little jealous just watching him. He wouldn’t say anything cliché like it’s poetry, but you have to admit – it’s impressive no matter how you want to put it. Compared to Howard, R feels like a clumsy giant, his feet too big, the soles of his bare feet scratching against an Arena 5 map/carpet thing.
He’s been in gift shops before. They were great places to score things for his 747 collection: lava lamps, stacks of magazines he couldn’t read, shot glasses. It’d taken M several months to groan it was “shopping th –”. (He’d never gotten that last bit). Anyway, he could respect Howard’s choice in scrounging spots.
R shuffles along as he checks out the shelves. Some of them go easily over Howard’s head; these are the ones he figures he should be focusing on unless they find a ladder. Towels. Boxes with logos that don’t mean anything and words he can’t read. He pulls a few of these down and leaves them in a pile on the floor. Howard can paw over those later. Moving on.
He’s digging through what looks like shoe boxes when he hears Howard on the other side of the clothing rack.
“Oh wow,” R breathes. Reaching over, his elbow jostles against a hanger. He cringes. “Sorry!”
Wincing, R ducks back to the shoe boxes with his cheeks flushing red. When he pops back up, he’s holding two pairs of shoes like trophies, kid-friendly shoelaces in District 12’s colors dangling from his hands. The downside is they’re for kids – the laces are shorter – but the bonus is because of that, they’re much thicker and less likely to break.
no subject
Howard mutters something to himself as he strokes his chin, looking back over all the clothing and imagining what he could do with it. He's been lucky enough to get a knife, so just about anything could be cut into wraps. He grabs some dark-colored clothes and stuffs them into his backpack.
"Shhhh." Howard doesn't seem terribly worried right now, though - R's not too loud and Howard's keeping the entrance to the gift shop in sight. He doesn't leave his back unprotected for a moment - even from R.
"I'm mostly staying down in a car in the parking lot. Looking for Wyatt. I don't think John wants much to do with me lately." He takes the shoes from R. "These are perfect. Can you try and-"
Nah, he's about to ask R to try and unlace the shoes but somehow he doubts that's really in R's legerdemain. "Nevermind, I'll get it."
The museum is now closed, a voice over the intercom says.
no subject
Relieved, R glances around for something to do and gets the brilliant idea to move some of the stuff outside the gift shop. Pile it up, go back in for more. He reaches down and collects his crowbar, the towels because those could work as blankets, and a few boxes of Animal Crackers. Those he'll surprise Howard with. They're not in the shape of animals, but Tributes, and these boxes are apparently from the last Arena - he spots a little cartoon of Howard in khakis sprinting through tall grass.
He'd like to ask about this John thing, but he's not sure if he should. Seems private. He respects Howard's right to privacy even in the middle of an Arena. So he lets it go, files it away in the back of his mind. So at least two people aren't buddy-buddy with Howard. Got it.
R sticks the rest of the loot outside. He disregards the voice because he'd always ignore the intercom back home. It'd been automated, buzzing on and off whenever the generators kicked in and he'd long since stopped listening. R steps in through the gift shop doors.
The air splits open as he sets off the alarm.
R makes a strangled noise of surprise as his body does the rest: it claps his hands over his ears as his knees lock up, not sure if he should stay here, sprint left or take his chances going right. Was it him? It was him, wasn't it? He'd tripped something or opened the door wrong.
He swings around, desperately trying to find Howard. What do they do?
no subject
"Hide!" he yells at R, even though he's sure R can't hear it - even though he can't even hear himself. He can feel his jaw and tongue moving but nothing else.
If they run, anyone coming to find them will come smack into them. The only thing Howard can think of is to grab R and shove him behind the clothing rack, then crawl into a carrel of oversized hoodies. He curls up and clenches his hands over his head and waits, certain that someone will come in like hyenas around the watering hole. Every swing from the clothing on the racks looks like hanged fugitives to him, or predictions.
The alarm seems to go on forever, and Howard doesn't even know when it ends. He can't hear it over the ringing in his ears, and then can't hear it over how he's gasping for breath. He's shaking so hard his teeth are chattering and he's broken into a sweat.
There's no reason for him to be breathing so hard.
He stays hidden in the carrel long past when the alarm has ended.
no subject
R's surprised by how strong Howard is when he grabs his wrist while he's waffling like a lost patrol. For a little guy, he's stronger than he looks, R stumbling behind the clothing rack, the jangling of hangers bouncing off each other drowned out by the alarm. He ends up jammed between the pole and Howard, who's put himself under cover but in a place that's easy to bolt from if anyone pulls back the sweaters and blouses.
R doesn't know what to do with his hands. His scalp feels tight like someone's pulling at it, and for some reason he needs to do something with his arms. Without thinking, he reaches over and wraps them around Howard, drawing him close as Howard wheezes and shakes. No idea if it's helping either of them. Guess he must've been clingy when he died. Too much clinging, not enough target practice against zombies. Screw it. R wants to grab onto something - or someone - until this blows over.
He clings to Howard as he twitches, listening to his own breathing, imagining that Howard's heart is racing as fast as his. Maybe faster. It takes him awhile to notice the alarm's finally stopped. Could've gone to silent for now. One of his arms has fallen asleep from being pinned between himself and the steel pole holding the clothes between them and the rest of the store.
R waits, listening. His ears recover. His heart starts to slow: compared to how fast it'd been thundering before, it feels almost sluggish now. He's aware of strange clicking sounds from Howard.
"Hey," R whispers, shifting to better face Howard. They're so close their faces almost brush. "Hey, I think we're in the clear. Howard?"
no subject
His expression is glassy and distant, his face ashen, giving him the look of a corpse that's learned to gasp for breath. His hands are curled into bony fists over his breast, and there's a pulse in his neck visibly firing away under his skin. He's rocking slightly back and forth in R's arms. It's only just not enough to make the clothing surrounding them move.
He can't form thoughts of his own over the premade terrors that were set free by the alarm - you're going to die. Aunamee's back. He's going to torture you. He's going to find you here in the clothes rack shivering R's arms and he won't even have to say anything to get you to follow him into the slaughterhouse.
It takes him almost ten minutes to snap out of it.
no subject
It's one of the few good things to come out of being an ex-zombie.
He feels more than sees Howard shift next to him. There's a slight hitch in his breath. The rocking changes tempo; it doesn't stop, but it changes and he assumes that change is good. When he turns his head, he can see Howard's black eyes on him, glistening, with the frightened look of a small dog about to get flattened by a truck. R's almost afraid to breathe himself, worried he could set Howard off before he's ready. He dips his head in a slow nod to show he's there. He's listening. He's there.
R turns back to stare at the wall of clothes blocking their view. He spends a few minutes studying threads and stitching, a tag poking out that he can't make heads or tails on what it says. His arms are still wrapped around Howard's skinny frame, their warmth bleeding into each other. After awhile, he glances back down at Howard.
"We could stay here," R says, keeping each word clear but slow. Quiet. "Whatever you want to do."
If they haven't gotten stabbed yet, they probably aren't getting stabbed out there. It wouldn't take that long for someone to come running to investigate, right?
no subject
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I f- I freaked-" he mumbles, apologizing to himself or to the cameras or to R or he doesn't even know anymore. Thank God R knows to speak quietly. Thank God. Howard swallows and it feels like his mouth is full of paper; it's gone dry with all the sawing for breath. His hands are still shaking, and his sweat's gone cold, but he focuses his eyes and he's breathing deeply and slowly now. He inhales through his nose, accompanied by a little whistle, and it helps him to feel more in control of his body.
"If we leave, we might set off the alarm again." The words feel clumsy, as if they're coming over numb lips - or rather, they just sound clumsy, and he feels like his ears are stuffed with cotton. And yet Howard knows that they can't stay here overnight, presuming it's a night alarm, when this is only a marginally safe hiding place.
He can't remember wrapping his arms in a koala-like cling around R, but that's what's happened. He lets go now, trembling still, letting the embrace be on R's terms alone now.
"You're warm," Howard says, and it's with a slightly surprised voice. He's so used to R's stiff lifelessness that he didn't realize he could ever associate warmth with the zombie. With the ex-zombie.
no subject
He smiles. Go for comforting, some inner voice says. Try to get his mind off the alarm but don't pretend it's gone, either. R swallows and runs his tongue over his teeth, wetting his lips. It's a habit he's picked up from Howard without realizing it.
"You got us someplace safe," R goes on, trying to pick his words with care now. "You did good. Okay?"
He can feel all of Howard's not-so-impressive weight in his arms. It's easy to hold him pressed close to him, actually. There's no awkward trying to get them looped around the kid because there's not much of him there to begin with. R pulls out a memory he's stolen, one he's not going to tell Howard where he got it. He rubs slow circles across Howard's back and shoulder with one hand, unhurried, remembering through someone else's eyes what it felt like to do this. Unfortunately back-rubbing hadn't fixed their barricade problem and they'd gone from whispers in the dark to full-on screaming but anyway.
Maybe it'll have better luck working here.
R hopes so. He keeps his long legs drawn up and away from the line between the clothes hanging between them and the rest of the shop, trying to listen to the outside. His hearing isn't anywhere as refined as Howard's and his sense of smell's not as keen as a zombie's. With luck they won't have any stragglers. He might sense them coming.
no subject
That's the important part. Not what Howard did, but what the world threw at them. Howard's long past the point of believing that doing everything right means that you won't get killed anyway. What's the saying, eat right, work out, die anyway? Some days it feels like that, only swap eating right for hiding in corners and working out for fighting for your life.
It wouldn't have mattered if he did good if someone had come anyway, but Howard nods slowly. He rubs a hand over his face, and then his sleeves over that same patch to get the damp of sweat away.
And he listens to that heartbeat, because R wants to hold him close and rub his shoulders and that means pressing his bony cheek against R's chest and hearing that slushy thump-thump that seems just a little off rhythm. That little resurrected heart is trying its damnedest.
He's almost embarrassed, and yet somehow R doesn't exactly exude judgment. Maybe it's because R doesn't really have a leg to stand on regarding compromising situations. Maybe it's because R's palms are warm and move over Howard's spine with a kind of intent that makes it feel like Howard's back isn't something most people would run a hand over and cringe at, feel awful for with all that malnourished boniness.
"Thanks, man." His own heartbeat's moved from jackhammering to a steady gallop. "I think- you didn't trip it when you left, just when you came back in, right?"
no subject
He reviews what he did, what he knows about alarms from stolen experience and general observation. Alarms were for keeping out looters, burglars way back when they had those; later on some enterprising souls turned them into motion detectors and sometimes it didn't matter if you were shuffling or not. You got your face shot off either way. Usually it was to keep people out, not in. He'll assume it's the same here.
His hand travels across a skinny back that the hoodie can't hide entirely. He could almost count the bones of Howard's vertebrae, if he could count at all.
"Might be worth risking it. I could go first," R adds.
No promises on how good he'll be as a human shield, but he's hoping with the crowbar and his height, maybe he'll be intimidating enough to scare anyone off. Anyone without a ranged weapon like a bow or a gun. Other than that. R pulls back, still rubbing Howard's shoulder, pretending in his mind's eye he can massage away everything and knowing it's impossible. He still does it anyway.
no subject
He listens to what R says. Howard's with it enough to realize that that's not a great idea. "No. I'll go first. I'm more careful."
In the mental state he's in, he doesn't bother to sugarcoat that. It's just a fact. Howard's an eleven on the one-to-ten scale of caution and R's maybe a four. Howard finally extricates himself from R's arms and then from the sweaters dangling around him like fat, soft fruit. He tries to stand up and his knees go out from under him. He lands on his hands.
Maybe he isn't quite alright yet. It's some stupid quirk of nature that excessive flight response makes it harder to protect yourself. He slowly gets back up, even though his knees are shaking so hard he has to steady himself on a shelf of action figures.
No alarms. He stretches on tip-toes above an aisle and sees nothing. He listens and hears nothing. He takes a deep breath-
"Okay. Let's go. Get me back in the vents."
no subject
He nods. Okay. There's a little delay as Howard tries to pop to his feet and can't, R stuck with half of him out the hangers as he turns instinctively toward the sound. He pretends he doesn't see Howard trembling. It's harder to ignore when he's alive.
"I think they're this way," R says in a whisper. The way out of the gift shop is quiet. It's dark enough that they can only see through the red EXIT lights scattered here and there that R bets doesn't lead out. Just for show, probably.
He follows Howard out, pausing to pick up what he can from the loot pile he left outside. He'd totally forgotten about the flashlight, R pausing as he remembers how to unscrew the cap and realizes he doesn't know how to put the batteries in. Not anymore. He stares at the flashlight and the batteries and frustration tightens the muscles in his jaw. Jesus. This is like basic Survivor 101 here. You think he would've retained how to do this if he could work a record player.
"Can you do this?" R bites the bullet and holds out the flashlight to Howard.
no subject
Howard's voice actually sounds judgmental here, although that's partially the effect of whispering making him sound hoarse. He presses his lips together and elaborates. "The light will draw people. It's most useful like this."
He puts the batteries in backwards and snaps the cap shut. "Now you can beat someone to death with it."
It would sound comical if he weren't a hundred percent serious. Some part of him wonders when that became something he'd say, something he'd believe. Some part of him feels guilt, or, more accurately, loss - as if he's standing on a different plane with wind wisping around his ankles, looking down at the self that's here right now with the not-quite-dead boy and talking about bludgeoning people no more at fault than he is to death.
He gestures with his hand that they should go to the stairwell. This floor isn't one he feels safe on.
no subject
R hadn't even thought about the light issue. He watches as Howard sticks the batteries in and closes it up, taking the back flashlight skeptically. They're supposed to kill people in the Arena. He gets that. But - and he knows if he said this "but" outloud it'll piss off Howard - he's not sure he can bash someone's skull in. Maybe he's killed more people than he could count. Went in personally with his teeth. Somehow it's different with a weapon. R looks down at the flashlight that's heavy in his hands to Howard's face, barely visible except for a general outline.
Sighing, he reaches down and picks up what he can carry. He surprises himself by remembering the box of Animal Crackers. It might cheer Howard up to have some food, although R suspects he's going straight to the vents and eating only when he's sure it's safe.
R heads to the stairwell, trusting Howard's sense of direction more than his. He'd spent years shuffling into things, orientating himself, bumping off furniture. Following his nose and that sixth sense zombies had. Howard's more careful, almost elegant in how he minds the shadows as if he needs to make up for how small and weak he looks.
They eventually reach the stairwell, one of the glowing EXIT signs casting a cone of red.
"Is it locked?" R reaches for the handle as he speaks.
no subject
And he gestures towards all the empty space behind him, in case R takes him literally.
By this time, Howard's got a hang of how the locks on these doors work, and it only takes thirty seconds for him to open this one. He tucks the wire back into his pocket and opens the door. "Let me go in first. I'll listen for anyone else. It echoes like crazy in there."
He steps into the pitch black of the stairwell. With no windows, there isn't any lighting. He closes his eyes for no reason other than, for some psychological reason he can't explain, it helps him listen. No footsteps, no breathing, no speaking.
"Clear," he says to R. "Come in and close the door behind you. I'll lock it."
no subject
"Okay," R breathes. He turns, gropes for the door, closes it. It's even darker in here than that Capitol closet from a lifetime ago, except he didn't have the luxury of bumping his way in there a few hours in advance. It's all new territory here, R completely reliant on Howard now. "We'll see each other again, right?"
It's not the time or place but R needs to know and he needs to know now. His impatience surprises him. It's not the zombie way to get impatient: the zombie way is to assume they'll bump into each other sooner or later and it's one shuffling step forward, so why worry? But now he's in a stairwell that's so dark it feels like a solid curtain closing in and the only reason he knows Howard's still here is because he can still hear his breathing. There has to be a way they can meet up. Knocking on walls, smoke signals, something.
That's one of the downsides of being alive, he guesses. The ability to feel loneliness is multiplied. There's priorities all of a sudden. Things matter more than they used to. R stands there with his foot on one step, his hand on the guard rail he's managed to find and his face tilted toward where he last heard Howard's voice.
no subject
R's asked the question Howard hates to ask, because he knows that there's no good answer to be believed. Life's too spiteful, too hard - no, too random - to allow for predicting the future.
If R hadn't asked, maybe Howard would have said something in case one or the other died for good. Maybe he'd have some farewell appear on his tongue. It occurs to him that if he dies, R's last memory of him will be a promise he didn't keep.
But he keeps digging that hole for himself.
"I'll find you. You trust me to find you, right?"
no subject
He's smiling even though he doesn't think Howard can see his face in the dark. Howard's taken care of them before. He's smarter than smart. Not only that, but R has faith it'll work out. He's aware of the reality of the Arena but it's distant, almost as if he was a zombie again. What matters is hearing Howard's voice in the dark a few steps above him.
He clears his throat. "Be careful, okay?"
It's not saying good-bye and it's self-evident because this is Howard here - still, he hopes he gets the gist. A part of him wants to believe that if they leave off in the middle of a conversation, that means they can pick it up again.
no subject
And yet, he can't help but entertain the scenario where they don't. It follows him like hell hounds in his footsteps all the way to the vent.