Everybody Knows This Ain't Heaven [Open]

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

WHO| Howard and OPEN
WHAT| Howard tries to prepare for the next arena.
WHERE| The Speakeasy
WHEN| A couple days after Valentine's day.
WARNINGS| Post-trauma, so some recollections of death.

In a way, Howard already misses the arena. Not the killing, of course, but the solitude, the way he spent so many days there in relative isolation, alert but alone, catching birds and melting water, ears pricked for every sound. There's no possible way to do that in the Capitol; if he jumped at every sound, he'd never stop startling. As it stands, he can't shake the idea that he should be listening for something, should be aware of someone sneaking up on him through the crowds that he can't hear over the white noise.

He's taken to shadows, to dark corners, to trying to exist as part of the periphery rather than in the middle of any attention. Before curfew he goes out into the Capitol and tries to find alleys to hide in, quiet locations, places away from televisions and radios. He's taken a liking to the pitch dark restaurant. After curfew he hides in his room with locks and a chair lodged under the door, or tries to visit Eponine. It's as if he's trying to lift himself away from this world, to become so convincing that he's not there that eventually it becomes true.

But spending all this time hiding doesn't actually accomplish anything recuperative. He's worn out. He spends so much time looking over his shoulder that he can't sleep at the Tribute Center. He has dark circles under his eyes and sores from biting his lips, including one that travels all the way up to the scoop above his mouth. He jumps at loud noises and stumbles when he's not staring directly at his feet as he walks.

Death was hard, but rebirth has not been kind to him. He wishes he could turn it off, banish it to the arena. He wishes he could trust the other Tributes to do the same, but he knows none of this will just be forgotten when he looks at Draco again, or Alpha. Aunamee.

Eventually he finds himself at the Speakeasy. He gets a non-alcoholic drink and finds a booth in the back. He has a book with him, Basic First Aid in the Field. If he's going to be prepared for next time, he'll need to be self-sufficient, and useful enough to keep alive for anyone whose graces he relies on. He goes over the book, getting visibly agitated and frustrated as his scattered mind fails to retain information as fast as he wants it to.

Comments

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

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...

[shambler]

It's a huge compliment to be told he doesn't completely suck. R would fluff up in pride if he was still breathing. "Wasn't bad" is like saying he might still have it.

R gives a pleased wheeze.

Still in that gentle glow of friendship, R twitches another smile on and leans forward as Howard fishes something out of his pocket. R’s gray eyes go to the thing in his hand, taking that few-second delay to focus and process it. Orange. Furry. Chain dangling from one end. Another moment to realize he knows what this is: a rabbit’s foot. There’s a few of these floating around his 747, when he first raided the airport stores for things to add to his collection, by now probably buried under more stuff. Another sign Howard has taste, R thinks. The zombie reaches out and paws a little at the rabbit’s foot, his blood-stained fingers brushing up against Howard’s skin and noticing that it’s warm like Julie's, vibrating with life. Pushing the charm around on Howard’s palm, R fixates on the feel of its soft down fur, running his fingers across patches where it’s rubbed down to leather. Maybe Howard likes touching things too. For all he knows, Howard needs to reassure himself things are there.

“Nice charm,” R looks up. He reluctantly pulls his hand back to himself. The phantom sensation of warmth fades.

Howard goes on with more whistling, his fingers drumming out Elvis now. It's way better than the big, in-your-face Capitol anthems. R opens his mouth to croak out the lyrics but nothing comes out, he blew it all on Fly Me to the Moon and it’s like he needs to recharge after all this talking. Instead the zombie closes his eyes and listens. Maybe he can do the uh-uh-uh parts, it’s kinda close to moaning if you think about it. In the end he decides nah, he only wants to listen.

R waits until Howard finishes before his eyes drift open.

“Per…” R sounds insistent now. “Perfect for you?”

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

"Thanks. It's the one thing they let me keep from home." He closes his hand around it and tucks it back into his jacket pocket. He likes to clutch at it while he's sleeping, like the more socially appropriate alternative to a blankie, or like a knife he can't accidentally cut himself on. It is perfect for him. And he looks deeply amused that R seems so pleased at an off-the-cuff compliment.

He keeps whistling and then actually sings the last verse, to hold, to hold you tonight, in a hushed little voice. The song itself isn't a perfect match for him, he thinks - but then again, he's not very aware of his cycle of looking for his 'good luck' in others. It's a subconscious thing, innate and obvious to everyone but him.

"You should come to the karaoke sometime. I mean, most of it sucks, but they have the backing track for a few good songs and until I figure out where to get an iPod in this joint, it's the closest we'll have to the originals."

Which is sad, but it makes the challenge sort of fun, Howard guesses. At least, he's trying to look at it that way, and he's finding R's company is helping him to feel normal for a few moments instead of just scared, instead of just sick inside and trapped. Finding pieces of themselves in the Capitol is like looking for ore flecks in stone.

He wants to laugh at himself because this is all wrong, it's something out of a comedy, eating pie across from a dead guy and feeling like he's calmer now than he was half an hour ago.

[shambler]

R has to work out what karaoke is again - he gets it involves music and that's always a plus, hears the word "Ipod" and makes a face. Ipods don’t have anything on vinyl but at this point, Howard’s right about their options. R makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“It’s…a date.”

The glow from before fades as it sinks in not only did he make a new friend today, he’s also going to hang out. With a human. That makes a grand total of two in his whole life. Uh oh. How do you hang out? With other zombies, it’s easy. But someone like Howard? The only practice R had with hanging out were those few days with Julie. What if Howard gets bored? What if they run out of words? What if bounces around the inside of his skull.

Oh man, oh man. Maybe he chewed off more than he could swallow. R starts worrying.

He’s still worrying when he happens to look up and see a flash of teal moving through the Speakeasy. R freezes. Before he can think about ducking under the table and telling Howard to cover him (friends do that, right?), his Escort catches sight of them.

“Ugggh,” R groans.

“There you are!” The Escort is frazzled enough that her hair isn’t perfect, her teal outfit literally thrown together last minute. “Impossible!”

The first thing she does is check the muzzle. R rolls his eyes at Howard.

It’s then the Escort notices Howard, recognizes him, and her face softens. Howard might not be the most popular, strongest or even most handsome Tribute in the running but she’s rather fond of him all the same. He can put on a good emotional show and he cleans up nicely if he puts his mind to it. She may have been rooting for him in the last Arena. Privately, of course. Anything else would hardly be professional!

“Hello, Howard!” she says, smiling at him. “I’m afraid I need to borrow R now. He’s due for a…cleaning. Why don’t you pop by after? District 4’s level, of course.”

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

"Well, I mean, not a date but...set your calendar." The word 'date' is uncomfortably romantic, what with him being fifteen and it seeming like his stylist is trying their damnedest to pimp him out as 'handsome'. Howard would prefer to stay as neutral on that front as possible, invisible to even innocuous inferences.

"Oh, uh, hi..." Howard looks like he doesn't quite recognize the woman, because he doesn't, but at the very least he recognizes her position. She's either a stylist or an escort, probably the latter, because generally they seem to wear the brightly colored outfits and bemoan how uncivilized and hopeless their tributes are. His own stylist has complained a few times about how it seems like Howard doesn't even want to be part of the Games, what nerve! "District 4, you said?"

He makes a mental note of that. As far as he knows, that's not anywhere near the multitude of people he's avoiding for various reasons (either because he killed them or because they killed him). He wouldn't exactly fall asleep anywhere near R - just because R seems chill doesn't mean Howard wants to let his guard down around someone who possibly tried to gnaw on a fangirl - but it might be nice to just lounge around on the couch with his new buddy. Watch TV. TV that isn't people dying.

He wonders if they have The Deadliest Catch in Panem.

"I'll see you around, Rob." He pulls out his credit card, all that useless blood money to blow. "Steak and bacon's on me."

Okay, gonna wrap it up with my post

[shambler]

Does R look like he knows how to use a calender? He couldn't even keep track of months, much less days (something, he could tell, was up when it started snowing). R is suddenly clamming up at the arrival of his Escort, all the words he'd been happy bleeding out for Howard drying up to dust. Somehow it doesn't feel right doing it when she's here. R looks up and sees way too much teal to belong on one person. "Sea foam", whatever.

"Buh," R raises a hand to wave, not even thinking until now you actually had to pay for the food here. It's a seriously extinct way of doing things. Where he comes from, it's first-come-first-serve, and everything's free. "Th...ank."

The Escort being here makes R so nervous that his words are practically incoherent gurgles now. She's been trying to coach him on "proper" diction ever since he got here. Hovering over his shoulder, nagging him on how he should hold the silverware (or...use it at all), how to stop slouching, on and on. The same stuff coming from Howard would be okay, though, R thinks, because he honestly likes the guy and it's somehow different between buddies. He bets Howard would joke around, use a normal speaking voice instead of that teeth-grating lilt. Also there wouldn't be sea-foam anything involved. R thinks he'd be okay with that.

R starts to shuffle out of the Speakeasy with his chaperone, feet dragging, and he can't resist glancing over his shoulder at Howard back at the table. His first friend in the Capitol. Huh.