Bayard Sartoris II (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
yoknapatawpha) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-05-23 09:19 pm
yoknapatawpha) wrote in thecapitol2015-05-23 09:19 pm
We Pass from Death to Life Because We Love Each Other [Open]
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.
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.
no subject
"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."