thecapitol | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

WHO| EVERYONE
WHAT| Effie is throwing a small scale party for just the tributes.
WHERE| The District 12 suite.
WHEN| Christmas
WARNINGS/NOTES| Secret Santa's are under the cut. Feel free to tag in whether you signed up for secret santa or not.

Effie had tried very hard to make this a party that was actually made for the tributes, not made to show them off.

She had tried very, very hard.

The food was what she had been able to investigate as “home” cooking for those she could track down, an odd arrangement of food that sometimes got close to the tributes home food, and sometimes was a terrible disaster. Blood pudding, for example, was a dish best avoided. But then it usually was.

The best hits reel had been her idea. It took a tense conversation with Haymitch and about 45 minutes to convince her that now, that wasn’t really what any Tribute wanted to see when they were trying to relax.

After that the party was much nicer, mellow music, holiday cheer and, for a holiday party, fairly low key. Lorne had karoke going in one room, while another had a large glittering Christmas tree and mellow music playing, with the District 12 windows wide open to show the snow covered city underneath.

Eliot-Neeshka
Kevin-Lottie
Valeria-Tony
Momoko-Draco
Alpha-Anna
Cinna-Momoko
Epoinine-Alpha
Alex-Jade
Jade-Ariadne
Neeshka-Eliot
Anna-Valeria
Lindsey-Glinda
Glinda-Annie
Ariadne-cinna
Elliot-Alex
Lottie- Eponine
Annie-Jade
Tony-Glinda
Shepard-Lindsey
Draco-Kevin

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Howard's used to people reading slow. Orc still sounded letters out in a lot of words when they were friends, and Howard knew better than to interrupt and do it for him. He's not the patient sort, but he can afford the same tact to Eponine.

He hums the melody under his breath as she reads it. He's very familiar with it - he loves the Stones. All the white kids at his school expected he'd love rap music, but the truth was he always found himself more inclined to electric guitars than anything else. Maybe if the world hadn't gone crazy he'd have turned into one of those annoying teenagers with a guitar.

When she seems to have reached the end of the page, he asks, "you ready?"

No. No, she's not ready. Not for everybody to laugh at her. She had noted the tune a bit as Howard hummed it; she's inherantly musical, though she doesn't know it. But she nods at Howard.

When they take their places at the mic, Eponine stands half behind Howard. She twists her hands in the fabric of her skirt, balling it up and dropping it over and over. She scans the crowd warily, her eyes never resting on any one thing for long.

When the music starts, she'll wait for Howard to take the lead.

He does, and his voice sounds confident even though Eponine should be able to note just from the way he holds himself that he's nervous as all get out. He does have a nice voice, somewhat nasal and reedy but very accurate with the notes, and with a certain expressive cadence to it. He's always been talented at music but never really shown it before, since excelling in any form of art was a surefire way to get shoved into a locker in his middle and elementary schools.

"Oh, a storm is threatening my very life today, if I don't get some shelter, oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away..."

He leaves the next section to her, figuring it will be easier for her to remember and not have to refer to the songbook if she has lines that repeat.

"War, children, it's just a shot away..."

Eponine's voice is high and pure. She is obviously a talented singer too, though she's under the impression that she sounds like a cat mewling. Her voice is quiet and timid, an she falters over the notes at first but by the second line, she's a little more comfortable and singing along at least, to the song. It's music like she's never heard before; she's not sure she likes it, or of being so exposed. So she stays behind Howard, singing quietly until it is his go again.

Howard's surprised, and it registers somewhat on his face. He was expecting something a bit more hoarse, something that more matches Eponine's demeanor and speaking voice. But it's nice, very nice, and he almost regrets having to come back in and pick up the next line from her.

He realizes with some dismay that he's hoping she dies before they encounter each other in the next arena. Not that he dies, of course, but he doesn't want them to meet. The idea of having to kill her weighs heavier on his mind than the possibility of anyone else here.

When they're done, he steps back away from the stage.

Eponine follows immediately, of course.

"You sounded heavenly, M'sieur. Simply lovely. Was it terribly bad?"

She's still pulling at her jumper; the sleeve's frayed now. She looks round nervously; are other people laughing?

"No, you sounded great." His cheeks flush a little. 'Heavenly' might be a bit much. "I had no idea you could sing like that."

People aren't laughing. There's the general applause one gives a karaoke duo, plus maybe a little extra, although Howard doesn't have much to compare it to. Someone in the crowd gives them a thumbs up.

Eponine looks round in wonder. "They are not laughing at us."

She laughs herself. "Usually, I am told, 'Shut up, 'Ponine, or I'll put you through the window!' or, 'You pissed again you filthy kid?'Papa says I sound like a cat being strangled. Nobody's ever clapped me before."

She laughs again, embarrassed by the attention. She still even now tries to skirt behind Howard. It's easier to be invisible.

Howard, being tiny, serves little cover for her, but he tries to subtly guide Eponine away towards the anonymity of the back. He's not sure he likes all the attention either. Thankfully, someone takes the stage not long after them.

"I think they liked it. Maybe this can be how you get your job in the capitol, singing," he says with all the naivete of a fifteen year-old.

Yep, she's around four inches taller than him; for all of her starvation, she's straggled upwards, a weed reaching towards wealth, rather than being more compact. She looks at Howard doubtfully now.

"I don't think people would pay me to sing... and I don't think I want people watching me sing all the time. It is a nice thing to do by yourself, you know?"

He resists the urge to tell her that people aren't likely to pay her to read or write at her pace either, because he can tell she's proud of what she can do there, and there's no need to be the one to deflate that hope - he's sure the Capitol will do it in time. "Well, people here like entertainment, so maybe it's worth a shot. But yeah, it's kind of nice like...as a secret talent."

He glances over his shoulder. "I never really done that in public before either. Just at home."

"Have you not? You sounded proper and real to me, you know."

She grins. "Maybe you should be a singer. I would come and listen to you; I like your singing. Me... Not sure it's a talent. It doesn't sound so wrll. But sometimes when I am sad, it is nice to sing."

"Thanks." He grins back. It's a slightly different smile than the one he had when they met; his stylists have managed to replace the missing teeth now, and bleach the stained ones. The overly-white grin doesn't look quite right on him, and through the night he's been looking out the corner of his eye to catch himself in mirrors, determining if he likes it or not.

"Maybe. It's a better gig than the Arena, probably." His voice drops a bit. That's not really a happy subject to be discussing at a party, or off the high of their successful karaoke. "Sometimes I write, too, when I'm sad. You aren't really shrill, you know. Just. High up, I guess."

Eponine's smile is unnaturally clean too; it has been since she was killed. She likes it, though. It makes her feel just a little bit more pretty. It doesn't look as harsh in her face either, with her paler skin tone, not as noticeable as Howard's. She doesn't comment, though. Barely notices. Howard's modifications are nothing compared to some of the people here and in the Capitol at large.

"It would definitely be better. I tell you, M'sieur Howard, I will NOT fight." She, on the other hand, doesn't bother to lower her voice. Let them hear. Perhaps they won't bother to put her back in.
"I would do any job if I did not have to go back, anything at all."

She grins. "What do you write? I can write, you know - maman taught me the letters when I was little, and I never forgot 'em. Sometimes I used to practise a bit but paper and ink were expensive an' Papa needed 'em for his letters. Never when I were sad though..."

He gives her a bit of a sad close-mouthed smile to that. He hopes she's right, because he doesn't like the idea that she's going to get herself killed for real over her refusal to play the game. "I tried talking to one of the stylists here. He told me to listen to what my mentor and stylist tell me."

He doesn't sound thrilled by that idea. It's much easier said than done, telling someone to put their faith in a third party when death is the stake.

"I don't know. Stories. Just stories, I guess, and I write about my day. You can get all the paper and ink you want here, though. Maybe you can even draw."

"I was talking to one too - that man, with the gold on his eyes." She nods her head over at Cinna.
"He said I should just fight. And he said he was sorry for what is happening to us, but we cannot stop it. I don't care though. I want to just live in the Capitol."

She grins though. She's trying not to worry about her decision not to fight.
"You write stories? You must be clever. Can I read one? Or will you tell it to me one time?"

Howard glances over at Cinna and nods. That's the guy. "Yeah. He seems to want us to go with it."

Some small part of Howard is tired of just 'going with' being forced into horrible situations. But the rest of him is much more practical.

"Uh...maybe. Someday. When I write a good one." He wrinkles his lower lip under his upper one in a clear expression of embarrassment and stares at his feet. "They're not very good yet."

"I bet they are good. You must tell me one. Just one story. It has been so long since I have heard one - Maman used to tell me of Cendrillon and le fresne and Bisclavret and - oh, what was it - about the lady who had four knights love her - oh, it was beautiful. I have not heard it in so long though, not even thought about it - but it was beautiful. Maman used to have it in a book - it was so nice, and even I was not allowed to touch. I cried when she sold it - but I was only little. It is okay to cry then."

She smiles shyly. "Not now - here is not the place for stories. But before the arena. Tell me one so I can think of it when they kill me. And I will make one for you to think of so it maybe doesn't hurt."

Howard's cheeks turn more and more red. He scuffs his shoe a bit. "Alright. But when I tell you one, you have to promise to pretend it's not total crap, okay?"

He racks his brains a bit. He'll have to write a new one, out of his comfort zone. Howard has no idea what fresne or Bisclavret are, but Eponine sounds like she likes happy, romantic stories, not a teenager's angsty short stories about grotesque deaths and zombies and flesh-eating insects. So it'll have to be a new one.

"Alright. Before the next arena, I'll write you something and you can make something up for me." He doubts it'll be what he thinks of when he dies - his death will probably be filled with more thoughts of pain and terror that it might be for real this time - but it's a nice gesture.

"It will not be this 'crap'. I promise you, if it is like how you sing, it will be beautiful."

She sidles a bit closer. "And I will try and write one. Or maybe just say it - I can write, but it takes a long time, you know? I am not practised, I am afraid... Howard, we are friends now, aren't we? It's good maybe, to have a friend here."

"Thanks," he says, more into the collar of his shirt than to her. He feels like his cheeks are starting to ache from being involuntarily fixed in this bashful smile. It falters slightly as she asks that important question.

He doesn't really want friends. Friends are a burden, they're someone who can hurt you deeper than a mere acquaintance can. Almost reflexively he runs a finger along the side of his nose, where the new shape reminds him of having it broken only months ago by the person he considered his friend.

But what else is he supposed to call her? They aren't allies because they aren't really cooperating. And he does care, at least a little, about her. He doesn't want her to die. So he hesitates, but settles on honesty. "Yeah. Yeah, I think we are. And yeah, it is good."

She does note the falter in his smile, which makes her flinch back just a little. Of course he doesn't want to be friends. Who would want to be friends with a sneak and a thief and a girl determined to cross these powerful people because she doesn't want to fight?

She smiles a bit at his reply, but it's a lot more restrained now. He doesn't really want to be friends, does he? She had thought it would be okay - he was not such a posh man and he had some of the same habits as she did...

But still, she smiles just a little bit at him. "Then that is good, M'sieur. You're the first friend I've had."

He sees the strain in her smile and twists a little inside, as if there were a cord in the center of his torso and she's gripped and wrung it. "No, no, it's not like that. I just...I only had one friend before, and it didn't work out good for me."

And he won't elaborate on that, because she's already made it clear that she thinks expressing fear is unwise. No need to spell it out that he's afraid of that happening again.

"It's me, not you. But yeah, I'm glad I'm your friend too."

"Do you want some gin? I didn't buy wine; It is nice, that, but it was expensive - I didn't have that much left."

But she did have enough - just - for the gin. She's still a bit wary of Howard now, but... well, she'll take whatever she can get. Eponine needs a friend. And Howard, she supposes, is better than nobody, even if he is a half-hearted friend.

"No, I don't drink. Don't like the taste. I'll make sure you get home safe if you want to have some, though."

Although he's not thrilled by the idea, but he doesn't let that show in his expression. Alcohol's what took his last friendship down such a sour road.

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