Howard giggles a bit and leans back against the booth. "I figured your vocal cords would be all, like. Dessicated. That wasn't bad." Granted, it kind of sounded like Tom Waits, but Howard isn't going to say that to his new bud.
Something about finding this music so far from home is relaxing. There's something profoundly melancholy about knowing that odds are that he and R are the only ones who recognize the tune, but in a way it's a bit exciting, like figuring out a private language you can share with someone. He likes R. R's like a secret keeper, in a way, a treasurebox into whom Howard's putting fears and sorrows and joys, a large human diorama into which Howard is arranging his interests and taking delight in the fact that they fit into scenery so well. That R absorbs, processes, responds.
"And that's kind of funny, Good Luck Charm..."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his Tribute token, a lucky rabbit's foot he won at an arcade when he was twelve. It's really the only physical memento he has left of his life before the Games, before the FAYZ. He holds it in his hand, letting his eyes linger on it as if it's something amusing, as if it's whispering a semi-amusing joke to him.
He holds it out to R to look at. The dyed orange fur is ratty and faded, and the keychain that was once silver is now a brassy color. "I don't guess it does me much good, but..."
And he starts to whistle Good Luck Charm instead. He even taps out the rhythm on the table, the one two three four...
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Something about finding this music so far from home is relaxing. There's something profoundly melancholy about knowing that odds are that he and R are the only ones who recognize the tune, but in a way it's a bit exciting, like figuring out a private language you can share with someone. He likes R. R's like a secret keeper, in a way, a treasurebox into whom Howard's putting fears and sorrows and joys, a large human diorama into which Howard is arranging his interests and taking delight in the fact that they fit into scenery so well. That R absorbs, processes, responds.
"And that's kind of funny, Good Luck Charm..."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his Tribute token, a lucky rabbit's foot he won at an arcade when he was twelve. It's really the only physical memento he has left of his life before the Games, before the FAYZ. He holds it in his hand, letting his eyes linger on it as if it's something amusing, as if it's whispering a semi-amusing joke to him.
He holds it out to R to look at. The dyed orange fur is ratty and faded, and the keychain that was once silver is now a brassy color. "I don't guess it does me much good, but..."
And he starts to whistle Good Luck Charm instead. He even taps out the rhythm on the table, the one two three four...