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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
"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.
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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.