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(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
"You know, at home, Montparnasse used to dress me up like this, sometimes, in the dresses he took from the ladies he killed. He liked to see me wear them so that he could laugh at me. He would say, 'Oh, you are so ugly. Look. A slut all tarted up to look like a lady. Can't hide those teeth of yours, can you, 'Ponine?'"
She advances on R. "But you wouldn't say it, would you, Monsieur? Think it, if you like. I don't care. You can say it, if you like. If you keep bringing me food. I like ice cream, Monsieur."
no subject
"You're - we. We talked about this, didn't we?" R's not sure this is the best place to have this conversation but clearly he wasn't the best judge of time and place to begin with. His eyebrows knit together, a little line appearing between them as he frowns. "I don't think you're ugly, Eponine, I think you're - "
He cuts off. Not ugly, but not Julie. It's hard to explain. What he does know is she has major self-esteem problems that are even more glaring now that he's alive. Before that Dead fog had buffered him against her words, in a way. Now R's aware of their hard edges, that way her sentences rush together as if she's in a hurry to say all the hurtful things before anyone else can.
R sighs. It sounds a little like his old groaning. "I'll look for more stuff, okay? Where should I leave it if I can't find you under the benches?" He wants to keep her hands off his ankles. Next time his Cured heart might give out if she keeps pulling those stunts.
no subject
She closes her eyes and takes a breath. There are no tears left. There's nothing to be upset about. In the long and short of things, her ugliness is nothing. She has bigger problems.
"Well, fine then." She spits out. She hopes her voice doesn't shake. "Fine. Bring food for me. I am staying on the sixth floor. You might find me there."
And that's a wrap?
"Okay, sure," R says. At this point, he's starting to hit the "flight" part of fight-or-flight. He doesn't even ask what's up there, or how he'll know if she's still there - still alive - just slowly edges around the Roosevelt statue back toward the elevators. Away from her judging stare. Anything at this point.
He needs to get out. Feels stuffy and weird in the room despite its size.
R turns and fast-walks back to the elevator, the fine hairs on the back of his neck raised. It's when he lurches inside and hits the button that R realizes he was unconsciously waiting for Eponine to stab him with her glass shard.