The lecture would fall on deaf ears anyway. Just because Howard's more relaxed now doesn't mean he doesn't expect Tim to attack him, or that any deal they make is set in stone. He's been turned on too many times in the Games to believe that any alliance lasts longer than mutual use. He just hopes that by seeming useful once, he'll seem useful for the future, too.
He frowns a bit, grabbing water with both hands and splashing his face. He's ginger with the hole through his cheek and mouth and with his chin.
It always makes him feel...smaller, somehow, when people react to eating to survive with such disgust. It doesn't even occur to him to think about how strange it is to eat rats and cats. What goes through their heads when he talks honestly about what it's like to starve? Is it sympathy, or disgust when he talks about eating pieces of leather, about hunting down family pets and skinning and cooking them, about eating spoiled tupperwares of coleslaw and the sludge at the bottom of freezers that haven't had power in weeks, about saving a single packet of barbecue sauce for three weeks for a special occasion, about drinking saltwater and hair products and eating play-doh because nausea and sickness was a better alternative to hunger pains?
It makes him feel dirty and repulsive and so, so alienated from the people who haven't felt famine like that before.
"I'll hold you to that. The not killing me thing." He uses his fingertips to pull away some of the dead, now-waterlogged skin from the injuries. It's sloppy work, without a mirror. "And lucky for you, fish is the easiest to catch. They're weird fish, though. You have to watch out for their teeth."
He gets to his feet again, shaky but clearly ready to sprint away if Tim makes any sudden movements. He picks up the thermos and tucks it into the pocket in the front of his sweater. It makes him look like he has a pot belly, almost. "Anyway, finish drinking up and we'll get this pony show on the road. What's your name?"
no subject
He frowns a bit, grabbing water with both hands and splashing his face. He's ginger with the hole through his cheek and mouth and with his chin.
It always makes him feel...smaller, somehow, when people react to eating to survive with such disgust. It doesn't even occur to him to think about how strange it is to eat rats and cats. What goes through their heads when he talks honestly about what it's like to starve? Is it sympathy, or disgust when he talks about eating pieces of leather, about hunting down family pets and skinning and cooking them, about eating spoiled tupperwares of coleslaw and the sludge at the bottom of freezers that haven't had power in weeks, about saving a single packet of barbecue sauce for three weeks for a special occasion, about drinking saltwater and hair products and eating play-doh because nausea and sickness was a better alternative to hunger pains?
It makes him feel dirty and repulsive and so, so alienated from the people who haven't felt famine like that before.
"I'll hold you to that. The not killing me thing." He uses his fingertips to pull away some of the dead, now-waterlogged skin from the injuries. It's sloppy work, without a mirror. "And lucky for you, fish is the easiest to catch. They're weird fish, though. You have to watch out for their teeth."
He gets to his feet again, shaky but clearly ready to sprint away if Tim makes any sudden movements. He picks up the thermos and tucks it into the pocket in the front of his sweater. It makes him look like he has a pot belly, almost. "Anyway, finish drinking up and we'll get this pony show on the road. What's your name?"