Howard Bassem (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2014-02-22 08:52 pm
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in thearena2014-02-22 08:52 pm
Entry tags:
Turn Around, Bright Eyes [Open]
WHO| Howard and open, Howard and Wyatt
WHAT| Howard stumbles around blindly through the basement, dies
WHEN| Week 6
WHERE| Parking lot
WARNINGS| Death, some description of injury.
[OPEN]
Howard doesn't stray away from the car, but to stretch his legs he walks in circles around it, limping and shuffling to avoid putting more pain on his injured feet. He feels over the metal with his good hand, walking in circles until he can feel warmth still soaked in from where he was moments ago. And he hums a little to himself, even though he knows it's dangerous, because being blind and in silence feel like being both blind and deaf. He can't be trapped with just the noises in his head - the pounding of his own blood, the sound of his breath, the imaginary foes that come up on him.
His eyes are covered in bandages that wrap all the way around his head. Skin flakes and peels off from the area around semi-healed burns on his neck and shoulders, the worst of which are covered in gel and tape and the rest are, unfortunately, exposed. He hardly looks human anymore, instead like some videogame monster, a limping, stooped, pustule-covered creature feeling his way around the same circle, over and over.
He stops when he hears noise. He freezes and stops humming "Total Eclipse of the Heart", standing still as a rod.
-/-
[For Wyatt]
The antibiotics from the medical kit run out. Whatever bacteria is festering in Howard's burns does not. Soon enough he's running a fever, and he seems weak and fatigued, more than he has been. He stops going for his walks around the car and sleeps more, and he talks to Wyatt less, needing to be prodded into talking. Sometimes he has to be asked a question multiple times before he seems aware he's expected to answer.
When he does sleep, with the chills he's so cold he needs to rest against Wyatt's side to feel warm. He rests there with his head against Wyatt's chest, bundled in their raggedy blanket. For a while he tried to blame Max for not sending them supplies, but he knows, deep down, how difficult it is to get medicine this late in the Game.
"You think there's much longer to this Arena?" he mumbles.
WHAT| Howard stumbles around blindly through the basement, dies
WHEN| Week 6
WHERE| Parking lot
WARNINGS| Death, some description of injury.
[OPEN]
Howard doesn't stray away from the car, but to stretch his legs he walks in circles around it, limping and shuffling to avoid putting more pain on his injured feet. He feels over the metal with his good hand, walking in circles until he can feel warmth still soaked in from where he was moments ago. And he hums a little to himself, even though he knows it's dangerous, because being blind and in silence feel like being both blind and deaf. He can't be trapped with just the noises in his head - the pounding of his own blood, the sound of his breath, the imaginary foes that come up on him.
His eyes are covered in bandages that wrap all the way around his head. Skin flakes and peels off from the area around semi-healed burns on his neck and shoulders, the worst of which are covered in gel and tape and the rest are, unfortunately, exposed. He hardly looks human anymore, instead like some videogame monster, a limping, stooped, pustule-covered creature feeling his way around the same circle, over and over.
He stops when he hears noise. He freezes and stops humming "Total Eclipse of the Heart", standing still as a rod.
-/-
[For Wyatt]
The antibiotics from the medical kit run out. Whatever bacteria is festering in Howard's burns does not. Soon enough he's running a fever, and he seems weak and fatigued, more than he has been. He stops going for his walks around the car and sleeps more, and he talks to Wyatt less, needing to be prodded into talking. Sometimes he has to be asked a question multiple times before he seems aware he's expected to answer.
When he does sleep, with the chills he's so cold he needs to rest against Wyatt's side to feel warm. He rests there with his head against Wyatt's chest, bundled in their raggedy blanket. For a while he tried to blame Max for not sending them supplies, but he knows, deep down, how difficult it is to get medicine this late in the Game.
"You think there's much longer to this Arena?" he mumbles.
no subject
He squeezed Howard's shoulder, pressed closer as if maybe if he willed hard enough, he could take on the boy's sickness - take it through his skin, through the heat against his cheek.
"You an' me, jus' like I said. Jus' need to stay strong a bit longer, son."
no subject
What he should have said is it's not your fault.
He doesn't even notice when he passes out. Time's been harder and harder to tell now, since he sleeps through most of the announcements, since he spends less and less of the day awake. Sleep is a refuge, a place that dulls the pain burrowing into his head and crawling in his skin. The nightmares that come from that place are hardly worse than the fears that can seep in while he stays awake, statue-like, guided through reality only by sound and discomfort at best.
He sleeps for a long time against Wyatt's chest, occasionally shivering slightly, otherwise unresponsive. Any attempts to wake him may as well be used on a stone. He doesn't dream, doesn't talk or whimper in his sleep like he sometimes does. Somehow, this time the shroud of impending death alleviates fear, rather than amplifying it. He's safe in Wyatt's arms. Nothing further can hurt him when his fate's already sealed.
His hand loosens on the stuffed animal, and it slides out of his loose grip and falls a few inches on the blanket. There's no death rattle, not really, just a slightly louder breath before he stops entirely, before the last of him leaves his tiny, broken body and locks the door behind him.
The next thing he knows is that in the Capitol, he sees daylight and it doesn't even hurt.
no subject
His fingers tightened on Howard's shoulder, his eyes squeezed shut. He held his breath -- and felt Howard leave him. The last whispering inhale giving way to a too heavy silence. Too sharp, too sudden.
Unbroken, but for the ragged pounding on a single heart, echoing in his ears.
His other arm came up, embracing what was left of Howard hard. Head turning to hide his face against the wall of the van, forehead on the window as his shoulders shook. The sound that crawled up from the depths of his chest strangled. Choked.
It might not have been his fault, but he felt it strongly enough. Howard had been counting on him, had needed him, and he'd failed him again. Hadn't seen him to the victory the boy so deserved.
It was hard to say how long he sat there, minutes or hours or maybe the rest of the day. The time meaning little in the arena, when life had already left him.
Max, Howard.... All he could hope now was that they'd find each other in the Capitol. Look out for each other after he - when he didn't....
Unless....
He hadn't given it much thought, nothing beyond those late, quiet talks with Howard, but there it was now. A small, dim spark in the dark.
Slowly, finally, he moved. Shifting to press a kiss to Howard's forehead and to lay him down gently, moving out from under the weight carefully. He slipped the little tiger back into the boy's arms and tucked the bag back around him, slipping it up over his face.
There wasn't much left, but he took what was. He checked the bundle of paper in his pocket, the card, folded into hard squares, and gave the van one last look before turning, and walking away.
He could see them again if he won.