(no subject)

[shambler]

Who|| R and [Semi-Open] – PM me if you want to bump into him so I can write a prompt.
What|| R wakes up to realize he’s a zombie all over again and the Cure, in fact, wasn’t a cure after all. He’ll be in a funk. Mostly he’ll be blocking traffic (cue finding him in the District 4 shower, creepy-staring, or else where). Basically R needs cheering up, pep-talks, even the awkward ones telling him he’s better off as a zombie.
Where|| Around the Tribute Tower and Training Center. Also District 4’s suite.
When|| After reviving in the Capitol from Howard mercy-killing him and before the next Arena. Basically a catch-all.
Warnings| Zombie references, depressed zombies.

Prompts in the comments for each character. Heads up I may be slow posting, so a post per day or every other day (so backtag central?).

Comments

[shambler]

And R, in all his rotting, stumbling naivety and desire to believe Howard wouldn’t lie to him, buys it with all his dead heart. His reaction isn’t immediate because it never is. It’s slow, not quite glacial, his normally slack expression changing to something else after a few seconds: his eyes widen a fraction, the muscles around his mouth relaxing in surprise. For a corpse, it’s actually bordering on immediate, knee-jerk instead of absent.

“No,” R blurts. “Not…gone.”

He doesn’t want to believe it. Somehow it’s harder to process the idea of Julie gone, even though she’s alive, even though that’s exactly what he thought would be best for her. Living with other Living. Not running these Arenas, hanging around a corpse who could still infect her if he got hungry enough. But the reality is he remembers those stolen moments, from the date with the flowers and the sleeping bag, tangling his hands with hers, sharing body warmth. Finding it in themselves to laugh. He hadn’t wanted her to go. The selfish, greedy part wanted her to stay.

Crushed, R rocks back a step as he absorbs the news from Howard.

“Plans..?” R finds himself asking for details, something that he’s sure no zombie has had the foresight or presence of mind to bother with. “She would…tell me. Perry…?”

He’s blundering around in the dark in front of Howard, torn between feeling angry at Howard and grateful he’d bothered to tell him anything at all – at the rate he finds out things in the Capitol, he wouldn’t have known Julie was gone for months. If even that. His grey face crumples. The idea that Howard could be lying just to get the last jab in doesn’t even occur to him as he looks across the junk, wondering why Julie told him first.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

"Go ask someone." For all I care. Howard practically spits the words as if they're venom he's sucked from a wound. As if he's ameliorating his own hurt by turning it on a target that can't, won't fight back. The fear dissipates and is replaced by anger that R's only minimally responsible for. "She's gone. She left you because everyone leaves you, and everyone leaves me. That's all we're good for is getting left."

He reaches back and knocks over a pile of his things, sending papers and plastic cups and screws and bottlecaps spilling over the edge of the desk and onto the floor like misshapen confetti. He doesn't even really look at R at this moment, so focused on turning something outwards, on taking the parts inside his soul and vomiting them forth.

"But that doesn't matter to you, right? I'm the only one who sticks with you and that's not good enough, that's never good enough, I'm always doing it wrong."

He seems to deflate, now, watching as the sadness soaks into R, sluggish and saturating. And he feels guilt, there, as he watches the emotions move over R's face as slow-motion as a mood ring. Howard's own tension cuts like a rubber band being snapped. He sighs and sits down on the bed, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry. This isn't how I wanted to tell you." This isn't even the lie he wanted to tell R, but now that it's said there's no way to fix it. The damage is done unless Julie comes back, and Howard feels relatively certain that that isn't happening.

[shambler]

R’s still reeling from the news, so much that he’s having a hard time holding onto the reason he came in here in the first place as he tries to parse out individual trains of thought from that grey sludge. All he can seem to focus on is the word “Julie” and Howard’s face filling his field of vision, gaunt and ashen skinned. Unsure what to do, R shuffles to what looks like a chair underneath a pile of boxes and sits down. It’s more of a collapsing motion, R flopping like his strings have been cut as he stares at nothing in particular. Grey eyes go far away.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there trying to digest. He thought he wanted to feel: from pain to emotions that weren’t just ghosts of themselves. The reality is now that he has, he has no idea what to do with all it. He feels even more like a stumbling, stupid corpse, unable to process his friend – crush? – leaving, or the fact that Howard has a habit of vomiting out the truth like poison.

R’s chin has drooped to rest against his chest by the time he comes back to the present, lifting his eyes to stare mournfully at Howard.

“Know…now,” he says with a little slur, not sure if it’s better he found out now or later. “Looking…out for…me?”

He lurches to his feet all of a sudden, driven by a need to get air despite decomposed lungs. He can’t look at Howard without questions piling up, threatening to go tumbling down like that tower he’d knocked down. His shoes slip on plastic wrappers, crushed boxes of stale crackers.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

"Don't- don't stand, you'll ruin it." Boxes and plastic and jangly things slide to the floor, less toppling than just oozing across any slanted surface, like a tent falling in on itself. Howard doesn't sound particularly convinced that that pile of his hoard was much worth saving.

He swallows and reaches over, taking a key-ring filled with gadgets and quietly fiddling with it, chewing on a piece of metal that's poking out until he accidentally punctures his lip enough to bleed. He wipes it away and looks at the zombie resting like an old, old man in the chair, surrounded by all this useless garbage.

It amazes Howard sometimes how R manages to look so very ancient and yet so young, like an infant. So helpless. After a moment Howard picks his way over the things and puts his hand on R's shoulder, then reaches over to start unstrapping his muzzle. A symbol of trust, the most important one there is.

"I'm always looking out for you."

And the sick thing is, Howard means it. And he doesn't believe he's ever mistepped in that regard.

[shambler]

Normally Howard reaching for the muzzle is something R looks forward to - apprehensively, holding his breath out of some outdated instinct - but today his reaction is entirely visceral. He spots Howard's hand coming toward the straps laced around his head, inevitable, feels his other hand burning with Living heat on his shoulder and he can't. He can't do this. Not today. Not after he had weeks worth to remember what it felt like to be alive and talking and hungry

R jerks his head away with an angry grunt, using his full height to his advantage and for once, he has perfect posture as a corpse. It adds several inches now that he's not stooped over.

"No," R says, wheezes, and tilts the muzzle out of Howard's reach. "Not...always. Leave me...alone...."

He turns and nearly breaks his neck as his shoe skids on a plastic lid, slick with something that could old butter or mold. R weaves, staggering back to a more-or-less upright position, and then makes for the door, brushing past Howard. His head feels like it's close to exploding from some internal pressure. Compared to his days as just another zombie, feeling an emptiness in his skull that howled, it's too much to deal with right now.

R wobbles out the door, the door swinging lazily on its hinges instead of slamming. So much for working things out between friends.

/wrap

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard's surprised. He freezes, as is his occasional wont when shocked. And even though he's fast enough that he could probably stop R going, he doesn't, instead doing an unwitting impersonation of a zombie with a slightly slack jaw and a hapless inability to act.

"Wait-" he says, but by then the door is already closing. By then, R's already gone. And he could run out after him but he simply doesn't, and he can't explain why.

Instead he just repeats "wait" even as he sits down on the bed, a sigh coming all the way from his stomach, and buries his face in his hands.