(open) It's a revolution, I suppose.

[swill]

Who| Hawkeye and you! And feel free to mingle!
What| Hawkeye dressed up Enjolras' statue as Santa Claus- come look.
Where| Tribute Center, or catch him being sneaky beforehand if you're a district-mate.
When| Couple of days after the crowning.
Warnings/Notes| Dick in a box-- no, I got nothing other than that.

After the crowning, he had made himself scarce. He had found that it was a pretty good idea to burrow like a gopher and never resurface, and never see the faces of the escorts or stylists again, though of course it was impossible. He kept to the district floor most of the time and only wandered out of the Tribute Center on a whim, once, at first, to see if the weather had decided to get its act together and warm up. It hadn't. He didn't search for familiar faces and kept to slinking around unnoticed if he could help it. And he kept seeing the stupid marble statue of the new David, the new Victor, the scrawny kid who defeated the new Goliath. It made his stomach churn. It was revolting. Not because of the victor himself- Hawkeye could hardly remember his name despite hearing it nearly every waking moment after the Arena's end. The statue just looked too glorious. And it wasn't just him being a sore loser, this time, he reasoned.

No, no. It was-- here was this monument to human blood thirst. Carved in marble and displayed like it belonged in the most privileged museum. And people walked past it and ignored it or else talked about it like it was supposed to be art. No, no. Michelangelo's David was art. The Capitol's rendition was warped and exalting some punk killer. And what was Hawkeye supposed to do? Ignore it, too? Wax poetic about a stranger who-- and seriously, he had won the death match? Not that the young man had had a choice to do otherwise, he knows, he knows, but Jesus Christ, it was wrong. It was as wrong as-- for Christ's sake, it was supposed to be spring, too. Not winter. And the world could go topsy-turvy on him, Hawkeye told himself, but no, he wasn't going to lose himself to it and its nightmares.

And so he started to wander out of the Tribute Center again, and he would come back hauling bags and packages to his room. Then he locked himself in there, and only resurfaced again when he had everything, kind of sort of, ready for action. He waited for night to fall and for the commons to more or less empty, though it never really did. A few drinks for courage, and he got to work.

His sewing wasn't great and the hems frayed all over, but to hell with it. He slipped the coat on to the marble, one arm at a time. The belt to hold the robe in place wasn't anything special, in fact it was two or three regular belts for use tied end-to-end and buckled at the belly. The pants were the challenge. He had to sew them on in four pieces around the statue because it wasn't like he could lift the thing. Because of that, Santa would have to go without socks or boots. And it was then that Hawkeye remembered the pudge. And he scurried around in the night gathering cushions off of the lounge couches and lumping them into the coat, and so it was that the statue grew a lumpy, lopsided, sickly looking belly. He had a hat ready to go, and a beard, but how the hell was he even going to reach way up there? So he dumps the evidence at the statue's feet and wonders what was left to do. An hour and a drink later, he hatched a thought and his mind was too fuzzy to tell him it was bad idea. With diligence and dexterity, he put on the finishing touch.

On the sculpture's hips, coverings its shameful dick, he had tied a box. A simple box, yellow and tied with blue ribbon, the bow standing perked like the marble's member wasn't. Hawkeye had kept a souvenir from days ago, a wig he had snatched off a woman's head while reciting lines from Shakespeare. He decided to sacrifice his trinket for the sake of giving the poor man's statue some 'real' pubes (it was cold, after all) and into the box he stuffed his charity. And under the violet wig, attached to a pretty red ribbon tied to the sculpted penis, is the only note. It reads "For Salazar". But who in their right mind would ever even think to open that box? As far as Hawkeye was concerned, that was safest place to hide it- not to mention, the most appropriate. With the final detail done and the art at its finest, Hawkeye trudged back to the District 4 rooms and collapsed onto bed.

So it's not until late in the morning that Hawkeye manages to stumble out of bed and wander downstairs with bedhead and sleepy eyes in tow. There were people swarming the statue, more giggling than not. He wonders absently if there were cameras at night that caught his act more than the very few onlookers had, and the violent shudder he indulges in, passing his masterpiece, might even seem like it was directed at it. He plants himself right in front. And salutes. And declares with a boom, "Now that's art!" Face somber only because of the hangover he tastes on his tongue. Turning away to lay claim to a sofa, he peers this way and that, almost frantic, searching for faces that aren't Capitol bred. The artist yearning for reactions from the people that mattered. Come on.

Come on. Don't make him have to ask.

Comments

[onlyimmune]

She didn't take it personally, that Hawkeye disappeared. Or she tried not to take it personally. This place was overwhelming and she knew that better than anyone, so she couldn't exactly blame him for it.

That said, when she caught sight of the massive statue covered in red with a bright yellow present where its - uh - package was supposed to be, she was not at all surprised to find Hawkeye on the sofa near by. A grin slips onto her lips and she stepped up quietly and carefully until she was just behind him.

"Art, huh. No wonder not much of it survives," She teases as she leans in over his shoulder. "What's in the box?"

[the_marshal]

It didn't particularly surprise Wyatt that was some sort of commotion in the lobby as he made his way down that morning. He'd long learned that Capitol types got excited over all sorts of damn things - a good number of which he either didn't give a lick about or simply didn't understand to begin with.

He paid most of them no mind... but this one was rather had to miss.

The elevator opened, his eyes found the merry red suit, and he slowed. Stopped. And chuckled low to himself, the corner of his mouth pulling.

Looking around, past the citizens gossiping and laughing and whisper to each other, he spotted the familiar face - looking just about ready to burst.

Drifting over, he stopped at the closer end of the bar (waving for his usual coffee).

"Better swallow that canary fast, friend," he offered conversationally, wiping a hand over his mouth, trying to rub away his own grin. "'Fore it gets a mind to start singin' on ya."

[orestes]

For obvious reasons, the Capitol no longer held any semblance of restful contemplation for him. Nonetheless, Enjolras had been eager (or, more accurately, had come around to eagerness after a good sulk) to return to his work. There were plans to be made, and policies to critique. He needed to meet with Cinderella, he needed to visit the Capitol's library and research relevant issues, he needed to-- Not be caught by the sight of his artistically rendered naked body looming ominously outside of his living space, its classical pose and mimicry as ridiculous as it was profane.

The vandals (there were presumably multiples) had certainly created a spectacle and, honestly, when all was said and done, he preferred their changes. Moreover, the anarchist in him respected the disobedience, and while he himself had never fared well with humorous displays, he could still see the merit in them.

As such, with a small smile, he crossed the small plaza, pausing momentarily to arrange himself --the book tucked under his arm, his coat, and the scarf knotted high under his chin-- and to admire the sight once again. He had little doubt that the Capitol would have less of a sense of humor than did their subject. In a few hours, it would likely all be gone.

[titansnack]

Art isn't something that really existed within the Walls - well, at least not within Maria or Rose. Shinganshina was a poor, poor district, and Eren had never once stopped to ask his father what the cities within Sina were like. He hadn't cared when he was younger, but being in this Capitol had made him curious about what it would be like in somewhere richer. He knew that within Sina the people had jewels just like here, but Shinganshina, Trost, neither of them had been close to how outrageous and extravagant the Capitol could be, and there had definitely never been anything you could call artistic there. Even before the fall of Maria the outer Walls had been too dedicated to surviving to have time or means for luxuries.

So the statue of Enjolras had been a mystery to him, in many ways. He had seen the reliefs over the gates of the Walls, and had assumed they were there because of Wallists and their insistence that the Walls were goddesses, but he had never really seen a statue. Not in Stohess, and definitely not at the tribunal, but everyone else seemed to know why this...giant hunk of stone was shaped like a man and sitting proudly outside of the tower.

And he didn't know who to ask. (Even if he'd much rather pretend he knew what it was just like everyone else, and not come across as stupid.) He found the people who were from this place to be bizarre and creepy, and the other people who had been dragged into this death match...Well. He didn't really want to get close to people who he would kill and who would kill him. That would make this so much more complicated than it needs to be.

Now the statue was even stranger. The get-up is bizarre, but it looks...purposeful. Like there was a reason for the choices - for the red and white and the belt and the box, and for the life of him Eren can't figure out what all of that could possibly represent or mean. (He really should ask Armin about the weird things going on here. He would have figured everything out by him.)

He stops by the statue, squinting as he fidgets with the fastenings of the cloak his stylist had pawned off on him. (Why was everything so complicated? Honestly. Even though the fabric was much, much softer and warmer than his Scouting Legion cloak, he still had troubles figuring out the stupid clasps. They were so unnecessary. Why did they need to look so fancy when snaps or a simple tie would have been just as effective?)

Glancing over at Hawkeye, as if staring at the man would provide him some answers to the never-ending mystery that was the Enjolras statue, he gives in. He needs to know. "Why is it wearing clothes?"

Please help him. He's desperate.

[casaerotica13]

This place was absolutely terrible. Though, as he had found out the night before, the night life of the Capitol sure was fun. The whole human and drunk part wasn't. Then there were these... people here. They were such a strange cultural, one that Gabriel seen generics of several times, but never something quite like this.

They were spoiled, entitled, selfish, but most of all... stupid. He couldn't even begin to fathom how low and ignorant the average Capitol citizen was. It was truly ridiculous for an entire culture to be this way... He supposed that's just how the leaders liked it, so they were likely bred to be that way.

Lucifer should have been the one dumped here. He would have loved this place.

That was probably the twentieth time Gabriel made a connection between the Capitol and his brother, while he stepped out of the elevator in a hungover huff... and stopped... and stared... and smiled and eventually bent over to laugh. Now this. This was a happy occasion.

"Finally!" he announced, walking closer to the monument with his hands in the air. "Someone here actually has a pulse!"

[swill]

Well he didn't hear her step up, and he'd been sneaking glances and his attention the other way. He nearly jumped out of his skin when she spoke, but years of guiltiness made it so he only kind of did a single shudder of surprise. He knew the voice by now, but found himself looking back, grinning, looking at the statue, and back at the girl again. Then he shifted the way he'd been sitting so he wouldn't have to turn his neck quite as much to speak to her, and all the while he did a poor job of wiping the look of a pleased child off his face.

Even when he frowned outright, he was obvious.

It felt great.

"What makes you think I know what's in there?" He asks, putting out his chest like he was supposed to be offended. He glanced at the crowd, at the statue. And giggled like a Catholic schoolgirl and turned to Ellie like he was going to tell her the best rumor in the campus. "It's a, uh." And he even leans towards her, and just gestures wildly with his hands as he prepares the words. "It's a- in French, I believe it's called a oui-oui."

[swill]

It wasn't a mustache he'd soon forget, though it admittedly did take Hawkeye a second longer than he would have liked to pin the name on the fellow. He found confusion enveloping him for a split moment, and he could only blink back, bleary-eyed. So, he thought, it's Wyatt Earp once again. Talking to the films had always been as fun as watching them, but he had never expected to be heard. You understand. It was maybe really stupid to be bothered by when he had already been bothered by it-- but who can help it?

Not that it changed the fact that the marshal had been real, his legend told. And for all Hawkeye had seen first-hand about time displacement and the such, he wasn't so sure he should bat another eye at it.

So he ducked his head, instead, meek in all the ways he wasn't. Caught red-handed by the cowboy. And he only moved to sink deeper into the sofa he had claimed, to grasp for a cushion that wasn't there to grab. "I wish I could swallow an aspirin!" He wails, because suffering for your art was hard work, didn't ya know? He tried to think he kept the smile off his face, though he didn't at all. Seeing Wyatt's own had excited him. It was good, it was great. Not everyone was as dead as he'd thought they were, or as dead as he had thought he was.

[tis_allgood]

A good prankster recognizes another good prankster immediately, almost like two members of a secret society. Only their secret handshake has a buzzer in the middle. So he has to appreciate what he's seeing, even if he doesn't know what the red coat signifies.

He isn't sure who to thank for this, but he's smiling up at it anyway, one hand on his hip like he has to lean hard in one direction to get a better look at it.

"Bless this gift of winter. And also, my thanks for the box."

He doesn't make any move to touch the statue, just admires how the whole effect looks in the Capitol sunshine.

[swill]

He hadn't even seen the boy before. It wasn't even a complete lie, since Hawkeye doubted the glimpse of the Victor at that damned crowning of his ever even counted- ever was real. As far as any familiarity went, Hawkeye knew the boy because of the ceaseless and tiring bombardment of media that had had him plastered on every channel since the winning. That he had taken the time to make sure he had cutely tied a string to the boy's penis, well.

Thank God for it being only on the statue.

He had yawned and stretched when the boy entered his field of vision, feigning disinterest to the most ridiculous degree he could muster in a second. He stood, he yawned again and wasn't sure it was because of his lame acting. Getting lost in the crowd, moving towards the David, wasn't too difficult. Keeping from glancing at the bright yellow box he had placed on the marble as he passed, well, that required some more control and a good dose of passing, easily brushed aside, shame. After all, he was making his way to the killer of killers with an amble that told of his mild hangover in case his breath or eyes didn't. He almost passes the boy, too, without ever really locking his gaze on him.

Then when his shoulder nearly brushes the fella's, Hawkeye finds it perfectly acceptable to sling an arm over his shoulders lazily and finally, finally, he takes the time to focus on the guy's face. He feels his lips pull back in a bit of a grimace. He glances at the clothed marble and back again at the boy and says, "Gee, you really look like that guy there, ya know." And he gives a pat, and kind of feels stupidly relieved to feel warmth instead of cold, whether he gets tossed off the victor or not for his intrusion.

[orestes]

He forces himself not to stiffen at the unwarranted contact. There's a blithe way in which the man moved that implied he might taken any sign of visible discomfort as encouragement and encouraging of invasions of his personal space is certainly not something Enjolras aspires to be. Most particularly not in the Capitol, fewer things seemed more unwise.

"So it would seem." The return is as non-committal as possible. He wasn't hopeful enough to imagine that this stranger didn't recognize him either from the statue or from the rest of the fanfare he had been pointedly avoiding from within the dark sanctum of his room in the District 5 Suites. That said, if there was some minute chance that he could evade the probably-inevitable conversation regarding his "victory", Enjolras was determined to take it.

He raised his chin, point to the statue with his nose. "He has a better tailor."

[celebrityskinned]

Venus has made no secret about spending her time near the statue - in fact, she's been as brazen and conspicuous about it as possible. It's not that there's really that much to see, but she has a part to play, and Venus is nothing if not committed to pleasing the public eye. The last few days she's been sitting at the foot of it, sipping her smoothie (making sure that the bubbles in the straw rattle their way into an impossible-to-miss innuendo) and reading a book by Camus that she really is only half-paying attention to.

"I just like the view," she says to a photographer who comes by the first day, making sure to glance lecherously at certain body parts. "Enj is one of those wait-until-marriage types."

She hopes Enjoras will forgive her for spinning the situation this way, but really, even if he's angry she's sure she'll be eating away her guilt about it from Sponsor gifts in the Arena. People want a love story, and Venus is fully planning on delivering one worth talking about. The Victor and his besotted, dangerous roommate, who coyly avoids saying whether they are or aren't dating.

She approaches her daily spot and, raspberry smoothie in hand, stops dead in her tracks.

"You covered the best part!" Venus says, waving a hand, then adding, "and the rest of it, too."

[onlyimmune]

She is about to tell him that she thought he was a doctor (and wouldn't a doctor know?) before he tells her anyway. She snorts, her face crinkling up as she leans on the couch. She doesn't know french (not even 'oui') but it's hard not to think that a grown man saying 'wee-wee' isn't hilarious as hell.

"Uh-huh," She said, grinning, climbing over the couch and walking toward the box in an exaggerated fashion. "And in English?"

[the_marshal]

The word aspirin was lost on Wyatt, one of those many things swallowed up by the years difference between him and, well, just about everyone, but still he chuckled. He didn't need the definition to understand the context.

And he could certainly see Hawkeye's actions written all over his face.

"Not quite the Kris Kringle I remember," he mused, the end of his mustache twitching. "But I 'spose beggars can't be choosers."

And it was good to see him, in whatever form, here.

Even if there was a small pang, low in his chest.

(Another Christmas. Another year.)

[swill]

For all the looking around he was doing, Hawkeye found that he was doing a good job at ignoring people, too, even if he didn't mean to. When Eren begins to approach, he's pleasantly startled that the boy's coming to him. Some part of him wonders, stupidly, if the boy is undercover so as to not draw the crowd away from the spectacle and is coming to arrest him. His eyes snap wider, just a fraction because he was struggling with a night of stupid doings weighing on his eyelids.

He even sits up properly, shoulders squared and his expression genuinely curious. That is, before the boy spoke. And oh, he knows he shouldn't laugh at a boy, not one who sounds so lost, so maybe he can laugh with him instead. It was impossible to hold back the barking, boisterous laughter of his. He doubles over like he has the best joke in the world waiting to be let out, and he glances up at Eren just long enough with a tone that suggests he does have the best conceivable reply. "He used to be naked," he says, and laughs again and hopes he doesn't scare off the boy. The poor bugger. He waves his hand- come here, come here, he means, and settles down.

"Whaddaya-" and Hawkeye draws in another breath, to keep the stray giggles away. Aw, gee. What a stupid joke. Okay. Settling down. "What do you mean? That's what it was put there for."

[swill]

He had found himself forced to leave his comfortable nest when he started to suppose he would look far, far too obvious peering out the back of the sofa and looking alive only when other tributes did. So he had gravitated towards the bar and, surprise, had ordered the breakfast he had skipped when he had moved down from his room to the commons. He had wolfed it down and now had spent his time weaving in and out of whatever shape the crowd had congregated as around the statue. Truth be told, Hawkeye found himself growing bored with it. After all the passion he had supposed he had invested in it, he told himself he was only tired.

Gabriel was a new face, and an interesting one, so he had locked on the target far before it spoke.

When he did, and when Hawkeye had roamed close enough, he rolled his eyes so heavily he even had to roll his head. He shrugs one shoulder, and every moment that box isn't opened is another precious second of life, so the movement is a little jerky. "Yeah, and it's sure as hell not him." He says. He looks the man over- definitely new, or at the very least new to him. Considering how social he had taken it upon himself to be, it wasn't a difficult thing to be. "His last wife paid for this out of her own pocket, you know. Left a really nasty note along with it, but that's been scrapped on account of being too revealing."

[swill]

"There were children present!" He defended, immediately, calling from where he had stood and drawing some glances. Shit, he thought, now he's found himself out, and so to mimic Venus he waves a hand at the statue, gesturing to the entirety of it and covering the distance between himself and her in long and confident strides- a concerned father applauding the new found decency. He stands tall in front of her, hoping to high heaven that nobody around gets the right idea to undress the marble bastard. He waves his hand again, like he was trying to find words that were more clever than what he ended up saying. "I think it was a smart move!"

And yes, he had seen the girl in passing, now that he could focus on her alone and that his ears were burning with the reminder that he hadn't been all too bright last night. Her straws-- yes, alright, he did remember her. He only manages to sound more convinced when he makes a fist with the hand he had used to gesture, ready to fight the good fight. So to speak. "Imagine children ogling at that... that thing there. That part! It's unwholesome! It's immoral! They'll lust." Hushed, now, like he was hissing a secret. He even stoops his shoulders further, crouches, and whispers, enunciating every word. "It's not human."

[swill]

He only wished it wasn't so cold. A man from Maine, a surgeon in Korea, Hawkeye knew cold weather. He only recently began to notice its bite, began to notice that the bite was similar but not identical to Korea's winter winds. And damn them both. Neither of them should ever have been in his life, but here he stood, and there he had been. No matter how many times he pulled the coat closer to his person, he still found himself shivering at times. He hadn't slept as much as he would have liked- he would have liked to sleep for years. He hadn't nursed his hangover, which was more of a shame.

His tired eyes were still shining with mischief, though for Hawkeye that was the same as saying that he was still breathing. This would be the first, he had figured in his time guarding his work, in a line of trouble he planned to get himself in. For his second act, he wondered if he'd get in trouble this time around, slinging his arm around Cuthbert's shoulder like one would with a good friend. "It was a disgusting display," he agreed, even nodding. "Still is. But it's better."

[swill]

Not only was that a boring reaction- he had expected to be shoved off, or at least gently removed- but that was a boring reply. Hawkeye tried not to be offended, because the boy couldn't possibly know the thought and effort and hours of planning that had gone into this show. He couldn't know how much of an effort Hawkeye was making now, how much of his old self he was mustering up to appear as aloof and boorish as he should be.

Boring wasn't what he had tired his hands sewing a fat coat for.

"Oh," he sounds, a quick little affirmation. He sways on his feet, making sure his weight leans on Enjolras only momentarily. He nods, squinting his eyes like he's appraising something too ludicrous in a museum. He was. "Yeah, yeah," he agrees and finally detaches. "Yeah, your stylists aren't that great. They won't be making headlines today." And he stands straighter and makes himself presentable, disarming grin suddenly sprung. "I'm Hawkeye," he tells the victor with a sweet little lilt for luck. "Sorry for leaning on you- I was drunk thirteen hours ago."

[swill]

He rolled over, face down now on the sofa. He let a hand dangle dramatically off the side and he said into the cushions, "You want me to sing, too?" In such a flat, incredulous voice that it carried over better than he expected. He rolled again- a boy tossing and turning and eager for his presents under the tree. He sits up a moment later, slowly and sluggishly, and the smile that plasters itself on his lips is more sincere and tame. He couldn't see the hurt Wyatt brought on himself, but he could guess it must be with him the way it was with everyone who knew the holiday, the season.

He studies his hands for a moment, sorry he couldn't do anything about it.

"Well, I could sing," he pipes up. "But your ears wouldn't appreciate it." Just ask anyone at the Four-Oh-double natural how they felt about Captain Pierce's off-key singing in the showers, in the post-OP, in the dead of night. Hawkeye feels his shoulders tense, and he gasps out a fit of laughter that took him by surprise, his gut tightening. "You have heard me sing! You fink! Nobody gets two shows out of me without paying!" His hands go to grasp again at cushions to throw, but of course there are none around. Hawkeye groans and fights to stand. He didn't feel right sitting and howling when the marshal was near. He'd much rather stand and yowl, so he just walks over, still a grinning mess.

[swill]

Well damn if it wasn't a trifle disheartening that she didn't double over laughing, and when she leans on the couch, Hawkeye brings a hand over to place on her forehead and just sort of push. Get away, ye of little humor. His shoulders still shake with the leftover bout of laughs, but Hawkeye finds himself sucking a breath loudly as she went to the forbidden zone. Well- that's what he had started to call it as of five seconds ago.

The gasp was accompanied by an alarmed and urgent ushering- he gestured again and again for her to come back, but like hell he was going to get up from his seat.

"If I started talking to you using those words," he says, "and somebody heard, I'd have to marry you. And no offense to you, but I'm too young for that kind of commitment." And all he can think about is the stupid red ribbon, and he feels another set of giggles coming. God help him not bust a gut. Get back here, he mouths and hisses, "I'll get you a book that tells you everything- it'll include pictures if you like!"

[the_marshal]

His coffee arrived, Wyatt watched Hawkeye bemusedly over his cup as he sipped at the strong, black brew, eyebrows twitching.

Just as antsy here, wasn't he, as he had been in the arena. He supposed that meant it was the man, rather than the environment, that made Hawkeye the way he was.

"Ain't like I asked for it then either," he pointed out, mouth cured gently at one corner as Hawkeye flopped on the couch and found his feet. "Ain't my fault ya were givin' it away for free."

[onlyimmune]

Ellie grins back at him as he starts to gesture wildly, but she keeps taking slow and overly elaborate statues closer and closer to the statue, reaching up for the box--

She pauses, finger tips poised almost at the bow, and flashes him as innocent a look as she can manage, considering that she's grinning like a hyena.

"A book, huh? With pictures, huh? Gee, Doc, don't spoil me now." She makes as if she's going to untie the ribbon but then turns herself around abruptly and skips back over to the couch.

"Alright, deal."

[celebrityskinned]

The whisper makes the hair on the back of Venus' neck crawl, not because of the fake intimacy of the tone, but because she so fundamentally disagrees with the premise. There are few things more basically human to her than lust, the lust which she didn't feel until recently but with which she could bewitch an audience of young men. She's made a lot of money off of the lust of others.

And now that she has a human body, now that she has a libido of her own, she doesn't particularly care to be told any part of the new her is 'inhuman'.

"Oh, yeah, there are children present." Venus rolls her eyes - definitely a handy new thing she can do now that she has visible pupils - and places her arms akimbo. "Let's show them all the violence and bloodshed they want, but heaven forbid the see a nipple or a limp dick. They'll take one look at it and their brains will start leaking out their ears while they hump an armrest or something."

[swill]

He waves a hand dismissively. "O.K., O.K.," he says, "nobody's asking for your logic here." And he doesn't miss the smell of the coffee- sniffing is something he even takes pride in-, but it might be that years of the mess tent mud had turned him off the drink. Momentarily, as the case may be. He fights back a yawn instead, and with the effort goes his grin. His eyes glance back at the statue, at the red coat. It seemed as out of place as he had wanted it to be. Naturally, he takes that train of thought and chirps, "I thought it was spring." And his shoulders move up and down so quickly and minutely that the movement can't be considered a shrug. His tone is nothing short of conversational, and nothing more.

"It was spring back where I was. I feel like I've gone forward and backward in time at the same time." And his brows go up, like he couldn't believe what he just said. "It's, ah-" he grins again. What a workout to keep it up. He turns to Wyatt. Wyatt Earp. And everyone thought him mad. -ha! And ha again. "It's going to take some getting used to, isn't it?" The Capitol. The Games. Being displaced, being alone, being responsible for nothing and everything. Being everywhere and nowhere at once.

[the_marshal]

Wyatt's forehead was creasing into that familiar wrinkle of confusion as Hawkeye started - what did spring have to do with the statue? - but as the man continued it softened. Understanding, replacing his bemusement.

He'd been there. Found himself back there sometimes still.

"Ya never really get used to it," he said into his cup, ceramic tipping as he drank slowly, the edge of his mustache coming away damp. "Ya think ya have, but then somethin'll come along..." He glanced over at the statue. "An' you'll remember how wrong it all is."

Another drink, and then his cup set against the bar top, clicking softly.

"Ya learn to take it as it comes, one day at a time." He slanted a look at Hawkeye, sizing him up with that steady blue stare. "An' to be thankful for the things ya do have."