thecapitol | Conscientia

Entry tags:

Conscientia

WHO| Open
WHAT| Night life at the Speakeasy
WHEN| Evenings this week
WHERE| The Speakeasy
WARNINGS/NOTES| Feel free to use this party post style, or however you like if you would like to set any threads here.

The speakeasy was a classy joint. Wood panels, and soft velvet, and usually some kinda of live music, something mellow and easy to relax to. It was big, with low ceilings and with many back rooms, some easy to access, others less so. Easy to get lost in. And it gave off an air of class, of comfort, and being a part of something a little different from the rest. The kinda place where everybody knew your name, and everybody knew to be discreet about it.

It was the perfect place to grab a drink, sit, talk, and relax. No one over heard you, no one got in your business, but everyone was glad to talk if you wanted to find a friendly face. The owner, Conscientia, made her round every now and then, saying hello to her regulars, welcoming those who were new.

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"I never been to Ohio. Isn't it all, like, cornfields and stuff?"

Howard rolls the empty can under his palm on the tabletop absentmindedly. It's weird, pretending that they're not in some new Hell. Howard actually prefers this to what became of Perdido Beach, California. At least here there's food and running water.

He scratches at a scab on his hand. It's hard not to pick and fidget. He's so on edge here, uncomfortable with crowds and uncomfortable with acting for the Capitol.

"No, it's not all, like, cornfields and stuff."

He's never heard that stereotype before but he didn't get out of Ohio a lot. And even if he had he'd wonder why anyone would think that was what was in Ohio.

"Isn't that Iowa?"

Howard shrugs. "I never finished eighth grade. I don't know my geography worth shit."

At least California's big enough that there are no overbearing stereotypes, except for hippies, maybe, and Howard's pretty sure he doesn't look the part. He doesn't exactly radiate warm feelings and peace on earth.

"So tell me a little about you and I'll tell you a little about me. Doesn't have to be arena stuff. You don't got to worry about me trying to pick your brain for a strategy to kill you."

"Eighth grade?" Blaine wondered if he could be any more turned off to everything that was going on. He got his answer. "They took you before you finished eighth grade? You're in middle school?" He couldn't hide the horror he exuded at this point but the Capitol was going to have to live with it.

Pot. Pot was a huge stereotype in California but that was hardly on Blaine's radar.

He eyed Howard. He knew he couldn't trust him but he felt like he had to get something out. So, he decided to be general and only share what was shared with him.

"I was in senior year of high school," he offered. "I had just become class president."

"Was in middle school. Bonus to being here is that I don't have to go back." Howard gives Blaine kind of a funny look, before he remembers that normal people think middle school is a young age. He still feels like a kid, but he forgets that the rest of the world is supposed to treat him like one. It hasn't been that way in Perdido for a year.

"But they didn't take me straight from there, my town kind of went to hell for a year before the Gamemakers got me. So I wouldn't be in school anyway."

He's fifteen, barely. He guesses he'd be partway through freshman year of high school now.

He smirks. "If we went to the same school, we'd either not be on each others' radars or be mortal enemies. You sound straight-laced."

"If I were you, I'd want to go back," he replied, knowing full well he wasn't. He didn't understand how anything was a bonus to being here. Big flashing letters advertising their impending battles to the death distracted him enough.

"What kind of hell?" he asked, now worrying about this near stranger. "Maybe. Maybe not." He shrugged. "You probably wouldn't have gone to my last school." It was just honesty. "And, I was in glee club at McKinley - so, you're probably right."

Howard's lips tighten. "Yeah, well, you're not me. At least here there's food and showers and toilets and medicine. Believe me, this could get way worse."

But the expression on his face changes as he laughs and smacks the table. "Glee club? Really? Hahah, nerd." He waves a finger at Blaine, tongue stuck between his teeth, mouth pulled into a grin.

"It does get way worse from what I've heard," he replies. "But, I get it. To some people, this is better. You realize I'm not trying to complain. I'm -- attempting, I'm doing my very best to adjust and it's just not that easy. There's too many things to account for and too much to be scared of."

There. He says it. He's scared.

"A nerd that's probably more talented then you."

"I'm not saying you're complaining, I'm just saying..." Howard picks at his lip. There's a cut there, where he's been chewing and chipping at out of nervous habit. "Don't just the people who think this is a step up. I'm not eating old mayonaise packets and rotten cat food anymore, so this is good for me."

He doesn't look like he's judging Blaine at all. Of course Blaine's scared. Howard's scared too, and that's why he's so fidgety.

"Look at how jealous I am. Sooooo jealous."

"Oh god," he says, eyes narrowing. "And I wasn't judging you. I don't do that." Not out loud and not often. Mostly, he feels bad for people or tries to understand them and where they're coming from.

"I see it," he joked, finally letting down a bit of the guard he's had up from the beginning of the conversation.

"... Did you ever see yourself going to college?"

Howard rolls the can under his hand again, lips pursed in a bit of a pensive expression. "I guess I probably would have if we had the money and I had the grades. I mean, I was thirteen, I kind of wasn't thinking that far ahead and still don't really get why anyone would want to pay to sit in a classroom and get bored to death another four years."

He and traditional schooling never got along. He's a smart kid, always has been, but the combination of a toxic social environment and a short attention span meant he never did any better than he had to to pass. He never flunked a class, but he hovered precipitously close to the edge.

"Why, were you dreaming of singing scholarships before this? Shoulda tried football."

"That's not exactly what college is about," he says, not quite sure that isn't true. But, nobody ever told him it was like that. Rachel said it was brutal but not boring. And Kurt hadn't made it into NYADA.

"I was dreaming of NYADA. New York Academy of the Dramatic Arts," he explains. "And thanks, I can play sports. At Dalton I played lacrosse. I fenced."

"Yeah? Well, frats and parties aren't really up my alley either." He wrinkles his nose at Blaine. "And those aren't real sports."

He figures he doesn't have to say that art school sounds really silly. "Didn't you ever get beat up in school?"

"That's not all that college is," he thinks, and he thinks he knows. "I did the other stuff too." Gym class is gym class. And Howard doesn't want Blaine judging him.

Blaine doesn't think that's his business and his phrasing bothers him.

"At my school before Dalton, I was bullied. I left." But, Howard acts like it's an inevitability - an absolute. Howard continues to lose points.

Howard squints at Blaine as if Blaine were speaking English, but not making coherent sentences. "And you still do stuff that's like painting a bullseye on your face?"

He bites at his tongue and looks down at the can. "I wish I could've left, though. I tried getting kicked out but we couldn't afford the other school in my district, and you can't get booted for good until you're sixteen."

"As fun as this is..." he starts, not going to sit there and be insulted. "So, let me get this straight. You think my singing paints a bullseye on my face but I'm a straight-A student while you tried getting kicked out and I'm supposed to what, applaud?" He really doesn't like this kid.

"You're young... and you don't care about the arts..." he starts. "Fine. Great. But, don't belittle me because I do something I love."

"Jeez, calm down, that's not what I'm saying, doofus." Howard rolls his eyes and leans back. "We got enough problems without making enemies because I think art school's dumb. I was just saying, like. You have guts."

He shrugs. "Or you're dense. One or the other."

"You weren't saying that," but he stops, calming down. He's on edge, too. Everyone is. "But I do."

A sigh. "...That's it. I'm dense. It was nice meeting you, Howard from California." He slowly rose. "Good luck." He needed to order something from the bar. Probably another soda.

"Not really." Howard seems pretty rankled that Blaine took things that way. He's been trying to find common ground, in his own awkward way. He doesn't admit to being bullied to most people. He flattens the can with his shoe and scratches at the table with his fingernail.

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Conscientia

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