We Pass from Death to Life Because We Love Each Other [Open]

[yoknapatawpha]

WHO| Bayard Sartoris and anyone!
WHAT| Bayard's developed a sort of narcoleptic sleep pattern.
WHERE| Anywhere.
WHEN| A few days before the Arena.
WARNINGS| None.

Bayard knows what a bed is. Somehow, he just doesn't always manage to make it back there.

Without someone making sure he's in bed at a regular time or eating something besides pure sugar, Bayard's developed some unhealthy tendencies, one of which is roaming the Capitol all evening after school, getting lost, and only sometimes making it back to the District Twelve Suite before he needs to rest. Sometimes he makes it back to the Tribute Tower, but since he isn't confident using the elevator yet he'll go up as many floors as he can before finding a corner or a flat, unoccupied part of the common room to nap on.

He's slept outdoors often enough in the past that laying his head on his folded arms suits him well for a soft place to stretch out. He sleeps on his side, soft little sighs eking out from between half-parted lips, fingertips twitching slightly with dreams. When he wakes he misses Ringo; when he lies down he misses Granny. When he actually goes to bed in his room in District Twelve (its mattress stuffed with candy and little knick-knacks, wonders of the modern day, that he's squirreled away - toys that light up, a fob for a car, advertising pamphlets mass-printed in colors Bayard thought only existed by chance and in nature) he sometimes cries from loneliness, and so, in a way, it's a relief to simply become exhausted from exploring and shut down right where he is.

Underfoot, curled on that couch you wanted to sit on, tucked inside a cabinet while you look for breakfast, you can find him at some point just about everywhere.

Comments

[yoknapatawpha]

Seriously, are there any Americans not from the South in Panem?

"My name's Bayard Sartoris," he corrects, not understanding the reference. Oliver Twist was published before Bayard's time, and was not run in publications that reached Yoknapatawpha since then. He likely wouldn't have been permitted to read Dickens anyway; his family's idea of entertainment is Granny reading the cookbook aloud to him and Ringo, with them sitting on the rug, imagining what all those ingredients might taste like when concocted. Someday Bayard swears he'll try a rum cake. "And I know what a bed is. I just didn't make it up to mine because it's on the twelfth floor, and I've got no gift for the ellie-vators."

He's sort of got the idea, but he imagines that if he went into one all sleepy-like, he'd end up staring at the buttons and pushing them in eternal confusion.

"Who're you?"

[shenunigans]

Christ. That is a Southern name. A dated one, at that. It's hard to tell if Bayard is sincerely from history or if he's just from one of those well antiquated pockets of America. It conveniently explains his lack of experience with both classic literature and modern technology.

"I'm Indiana Jones." He says blandly, with absolutely no cause to believe he could be lying about that. If he comes up later, he'll say something about an alias. He's interested to see if Bayard actually calls him on it, because it might answer a few questions about when he's from. He doesn't like to just ask. As a Time Traveler, he gets his kicks by trying to puzzle it out.

"Anyway. I can help you if you want, I'm great with elevators. More so than stairs, anyway."

[yoknapatawpha]

"That's a fine name. I had a sister named Alabama. She died of fever before I was born, though." There's a certain lightness to the way Bayard says that, like he recognizes it's a tragedy but also expects that probably Dave's lost a sibling too to childhood illnesses. It's such a common tale that it's exceptional not to have a few dead children in the family.

Bayard looks confused, with a shallow furrow knotting itself into his brow. Clearly Dave's sense of humor eludes Bayard's understanding of the concept. "You've a problem with stairs? Are you lame? Hurt? I can help you if you need a hand."

[shenunigans]

Dead children aren't exactly a foreign concept to Dave, but he can certainly boast the fact that he hasn't yet lost Rose and particularly not out of illness. He's patently unsure of what to say to that- should he pat his head? Is that condescending? God, just be real, would you?

"That's.. that's rough." At least he's pretty sure anyone with a sister who died of a fever was from the past, so that clears up that one and gives him a chance to segue away from emotional pain.

"Lucky for you, medicine ain't what it used to be. You can fix a fever now- sort of. I'm not a doctor." He waves his hand as if dismissing all the stupid things he's trying to say and shakes his head. "No, I'm the opposite of lame. I just have big feet and steps are always a half inch to narrow. You know? Besides, elevators will be your best friend when you get used to them. If you got places to be, it beats trying to leg it down all those flights of stairs without bowling down them like a bag of garbage."

[yoknapatawpha]

"You talk a lot." It's not an accusation, not rude, but a kind of wistful observation, as if Bayard were pointing out that Dave were blond or that the sun sets in the west. It's a fact that isn't even unusual enough to quite rise to curiosity.

H shakes his head. No, he doesn't know. He doesn't often deal with stairs outside the Capitol, nor are his feet very big - good old 1860's malnutrition has left him rather small for his size, at least by Dave's standards.

"They seem a good idea. I reckon I'm just getting intimidated every time I'm in them." He still hasn't gotten a handle on the idea that it'll open at every floor it's summoned, rather than taking him to his chosen destination first, and so he ends up on the wrong floor more often than not. "I'd be much obliged if you'd show me, Mr. Jones."

[shenunigans]

It's funny what an innocent observation from someone perfectly young and naive can do to a person's confidence. Dave opens his mouth to respond in annoyance, brows furrowed to express such an intent before he seems to lose his desire to do so and falls back to a deadpan expression.

"The doctor told me if I stop, I'll die." He explains finally, with a shrug that tries to draw apathy back into the situation. "Sure. I've got nothing better to do than show some narcoleptic kid how to work a magic box. It's only- what? 2am? That's the life lesson hour." The kid may have a point about the amount of words that pour out of his mouth hole.

"Call me Indiana, by the way. Also, follow me." He jerks his head in the direction he intends to walk in before he starts to pad away from Bayard.

[yoknapatawpha]

"That so?" Bayard, who would look up at the ceiling if someone told him someone had written 'gullible' on it, honestly wonders if it's possible for a person to die if they stop talking so much, and as such there's not a hint of sarcasm in his face or voice.

"Alright, Mr. Indiana." Bayard half-smiles just a bit, as if he'd like to stay ambiguous about whether or not he's being cheeky with that. He straightens his shirt, a hoodie with a logo on it that his Styilst has told him is very important to display. Bayard thinks it's huge and too warm and makes him look like a hobo's bindle or a sack of flour, but he doesn't complain, since it was given to him as a gift, he believes. The tennis shoes - no longer his father's oversized brogans or knee-high children's boots - are even more unusual to him. He follows.

"See, I press the button to twelve, but sometimes it drops me elsewhere, like it's swapping me for whoever else is getting in it."