Hey, it worked, didn't it? Don't know your romantic prowess, R.
Howard takes that as his cue to actually get mad. It's not that R's his friend - he just met the guy - but he doesn't take kindly to people telling him who to hang out with, or what sort of people he's too good for or not good enough for. It rubs the wrong way, and given that the entire Capitol seems to be exercise in grating his last shred of patience. it's enough to make his frayed nerves snap.
Besides, R's a nice guy. Good conversation, for a given value of conversation. Lets him talk about death and sadness. Hasn't tried to eat him yet.
He stands up, hitting his hipbone slightly (and painfully) on the edge of the table, which just irritates him more. He keeps his hands in front of him because they're still sticky with pie. The girl's at least half a foot taller than him, but something about the Arena, as much as it's stripped away at his sense of security, as much as it's made him scared and haunted and small, has in some strange way emboldened him.
He's been stabbed. He's had a spear punched through his parka. He's felt blood from his own body and his ally's and his enemy's soaking his clothing. He's not afraid of some fancy-haired Capitol girl with an autograph booklet and artificially-whitened teeth.
Some deep part of him knows he's being disproportionate, that it's not her fault that he's scared and angry (and scared because he's angry, and angry because he's scared) all the time he's here, and that he hasn't slept in days, and that he can feel his pulse pounding in his neck more often than he can't. But for a moment, he just wanted to sit down and eat comforting food with his new buddy the dead guy, who's been nothing but perfectly civil, and Howard doesn't want to be reasonable about the fact that the Capitol won't give him time to heal.
"You know what, no. I like hanging out with Rob. Rob's been a lot better company than you have, bitch."
And he reaches over and smears the mess on his hands onto the front of her shirt.
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Hey, it worked, didn't it? Don't know your romantic prowess, R.Howard takes that as his cue to actually get mad. It's not that R's his friend - he just met the guy - but he doesn't take kindly to people telling him who to hang out with, or what sort of people he's too good for or not good enough for. It rubs the wrong way, and given that the entire Capitol seems to be exercise in grating his last shred of patience. it's enough to make his frayed nerves snap.
Besides, R's a nice guy. Good conversation, for a given value of conversation. Lets him talk about death and sadness. Hasn't tried to eat him yet.
He stands up, hitting his hipbone slightly (and painfully) on the edge of the table, which just irritates him more. He keeps his hands in front of him because they're still sticky with pie. The girl's at least half a foot taller than him, but something about the Arena, as much as it's stripped away at his sense of security, as much as it's made him scared and haunted and small, has in some strange way emboldened him.
He's been stabbed. He's had a spear punched through his parka. He's felt blood from his own body and his ally's and his enemy's soaking his clothing. He's not afraid of some fancy-haired Capitol girl with an autograph booklet and artificially-whitened teeth.
Some deep part of him knows he's being disproportionate, that it's not her fault that he's scared and angry (and scared because he's angry, and angry because he's scared) all the time he's here, and that he hasn't slept in days, and that he can feel his pulse pounding in his neck more often than he can't. But for a moment, he just wanted to sit down and eat comforting food with his new buddy the dead guy, who's been nothing but perfectly civil, and Howard doesn't want to be reasonable about the fact that the Capitol won't give him time to heal.
"You know what, no. I like hanging out with Rob. Rob's been a lot better company than you have, bitch."
And he reaches over and smears the mess on his hands onto the front of her shirt.