Bickle "Billy" Livius (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bangbangkerpooow) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2013-04-29 02:39 pm
bangbangkerpooow) wrote in thecapitol2013-04-29 02:39 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
WHO | Billy and Marty (closed)
WHAT | Bro reunion.
WHEN | Week 6.
WHERE | Training center lounge.
WARNINGS / NOTES | --
The scar on Billy's right hand is fresher than the ones he earned in the arena, but you would never know it from the way Capitol medicine works. Billy wishes he had something to pick at, something raw and exposed that he could run his fingers across just like people used to do in the old days, but the skin is already so soft, so protected, so healed. The Tributes on the television are more to his style, their bodies slick with dirt and blood. They crouch more than they walk, their shoulders tense, their eyes darting, their footsteps quiet and secret.
Billy watches the Games with his feet kicked up over the arms of his chair and a milkshake resting between the crook of his arm and his chest. He sips from a long straw without bothering to look at the glass. You could stick a fly in there and he'd sip that right up.
"Boo," he says when the commentators rehash the footage of Blaine letting himself die. He throws his straw wrapper at the television set, but being that it's paper, it doesn't go very far before it flutters uselessly to the ground.
WHAT | Bro reunion.
WHEN | Week 6.
WHERE | Training center lounge.
WARNINGS / NOTES | --
The scar on Billy's right hand is fresher than the ones he earned in the arena, but you would never know it from the way Capitol medicine works. Billy wishes he had something to pick at, something raw and exposed that he could run his fingers across just like people used to do in the old days, but the skin is already so soft, so protected, so healed. The Tributes on the television are more to his style, their bodies slick with dirt and blood. They crouch more than they walk, their shoulders tense, their eyes darting, their footsteps quiet and secret.
Billy watches the Games with his feet kicked up over the arms of his chair and a milkshake resting between the crook of his arm and his chest. He sips from a long straw without bothering to look at the glass. You could stick a fly in there and he'd sip that right up.
"Boo," he says when the commentators rehash the footage of Blaine letting himself die. He throws his straw wrapper at the television set, but being that it's paper, it doesn't go very far before it flutters uselessly to the ground.
no subject
Marty doesn't move from his spot some five feet behind the chair, tumbler of ice and amber liquid in one hand as he watched the screen as well. He almost hadn't brought himself to watch them, the kids on the screen not his concern until the next time around. But that was the fucked up bit of it- well, more than the usual. Those were his kids. Their kids. And adults. And possibly strange talking animal creatures. Layers upon layers thrown on top of the event following the dramatics of two stupid, brilliant kids. Marty still hadn't managed to get his center in all of it.
"Not as authentic these days."
no subject
Marty didn't tell him he was coming back. He didn't even bother to call.
"Yeah," he drawls, his voice flat. "The reincarnation thing is lame as shit, but I guess it beats staring at the goddamned wall."
no subject
He finished the short walk over to the seating area, hesitating one moment between the couch and another chair before giving up any semblance of dignity for the day and stretching out on the couch. Only his shoulders and head stayed slightly elevated, just enough to sip when wanted. Settled now, if there was tension in the air Marty hadn't picked up on it. Not yet, possibly not ever. There was too much rattling around his mind already, for that large a journey of attention. His own comment first and foremost for that precise moment.
More than the arena? Parties, possibly. Different kinds of death. More and more of it, the further you got from the Capital. More creative ones in the Capital. But more?
"Hell if I know what."
no subject
He put the straw in his mouth and spoke through the plastic.
"For you, anyway. For me, it's parties filled with people I couldn't give two shits about." It was another subtle, passive-aggressive jab. You left him alone. You were not there.