Punchy Be Laying It Phat Like a Baller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
culturalappropriation) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-12-04 07:09 pm
culturalappropriation) wrote in thecapitol2014-12-04 07:09 pm
Entry tags:
We Get Older [Closed]
WHO| Punchy and Carlos, Punchy and Dave, Punchy and Gary
WHAT| Post-Arena condolences.
WHERE| Lobby of the Tribute Center.
WHEN| After the children's Arena.
WARNINGS| None yet aside from your typical juvenile murder games fare.
Tonight, it occurs to him that he's actually going to age. Physically, not just carrying extra years in his soul like an invisible tick, bloating itself on his years in Panem. His body's going to be allowed to slouch and swagger into its twenties, rather than stuck permanently at eighteen.
The freedom from the Arena, and the cage of life as a Victor, hasn't hit him like a sack of bricks. It's just revealed itself in details that blindside him as each day goes by.
He keeps coming home half an hour before curfew, irate that he isn't able to drown out his woes in public revelry. He wants to go to bars and gets wasted and feel up the cute girls who throw themselves at the new Victor. He wants to paste over the feeling of a chasm yawning beneath him with confetti and alcohol and g-strings. Sometimes he gets a little bit into it before the alarm comes, and he stumbles back to the Suite intoxicated, but usually he feels as if grieving for the person he's supposed to be has been painfully truncated every night.
He's going to age. He's going to get old here in the Capitol while everyone he cares about dies in the Arena or rots in the ground. He's so excited he could cry.
Tonight he's sober when he gets back to the Tribute Center, carrying a box of trinkets under his puffy jacket. The soon-winter air outside has flushed his cheeks and the tip of his nose rosy. He glances at the still-erected statue of the naked Enjolras and frowns at it, unsure if it's out of relief that he didn't suffer the same fate or out of envy that he didn't get a nude statue.
It's totally envy.
He flops down on a couch and rubs his hands together, reminding himself to buy mittens tomorrow. He won't use the Avoxes to run that errand. This one's on him.
WHAT| Post-Arena condolences.
WHERE| Lobby of the Tribute Center.
WHEN| After the children's Arena.
WARNINGS| None yet aside from your typical juvenile murder games fare.
Tonight, it occurs to him that he's actually going to age. Physically, not just carrying extra years in his soul like an invisible tick, bloating itself on his years in Panem. His body's going to be allowed to slouch and swagger into its twenties, rather than stuck permanently at eighteen.
The freedom from the Arena, and the cage of life as a Victor, hasn't hit him like a sack of bricks. It's just revealed itself in details that blindside him as each day goes by.
He keeps coming home half an hour before curfew, irate that he isn't able to drown out his woes in public revelry. He wants to go to bars and gets wasted and feel up the cute girls who throw themselves at the new Victor. He wants to paste over the feeling of a chasm yawning beneath him with confetti and alcohol and g-strings. Sometimes he gets a little bit into it before the alarm comes, and he stumbles back to the Suite intoxicated, but usually he feels as if grieving for the person he's supposed to be has been painfully truncated every night.
He's going to age. He's going to get old here in the Capitol while everyone he cares about dies in the Arena or rots in the ground. He's so excited he could cry.
Tonight he's sober when he gets back to the Tribute Center, carrying a box of trinkets under his puffy jacket. The soon-winter air outside has flushed his cheeks and the tip of his nose rosy. He glances at the still-erected statue of the naked Enjolras and frowns at it, unsure if it's out of relief that he didn't suffer the same fate or out of envy that he didn't get a nude statue.
It's totally envy.
He flops down on a couch and rubs his hands together, reminding himself to buy mittens tomorrow. He won't use the Avoxes to run that errand. This one's on him.
no subject
He shrugs, looking back at Carlos.
"Shoulda been a DJ. Coulda done beats for Cecil on his program."
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"Wouldn't that have been something," Carlos murmurs, feeling a surge of what can only be described as fondness for both Punchy and Cecil. "You know, us being here has lent a lot of credibility to the theory of parallel universes. It's entirely possible that there's another you out there who made another set of choices, who's mixing audio for Cecil's program right now."
The thought makes him, confusingly, sad.
no subject
He's wrong, for the record. Parallel universes have been established for forty years where he's from. He gets up and pats Carlos on the shoulder.
"You keep yourself frosty, 'kay, homes?"
no subject