thecapitol | (no subject)

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WHO| Aunamee and OPEN
WHAT| Aunamee is recovering after Grey stabbed him. It's been a crummy week.
WHERE| The infirmary, in a nice room provided by Timaeus.
WHEN| Between arenas.
WARNINGS/NOTES| Will add as necessary.

The sheets aren't dirty, but it feels like they are.

Aunamee has never been to a hospital before. The only time he came close was when he was nine years old and caught a rock with the lawnmower. He was fresh-faced and mortal then, his hair so light that it was almost white, and the back of his red vinyl backpack bore the initials A. I. K. The rock flung out of the gears and hit him in the head, turning the whole world black. Once his vision cleared, he realized his parents were speaking over him with hushed voices, but he screamed and cried and begged, and he said, please, no, not the hospital, not that terrible place. He remembers grabbing onto the grass, desperate, as though it were an anchor.

It is the same way he digs his fingers into the unclean sheets today.

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Only the best for his favourites.

When Timaeus heard of Aunamee's little mishap he immediately sent word that the Tribute's care was to be treated as a top priority, with any and all expenses to be settled later with his accountant- money was such a dry, boring thing, but it bought marvels- like a spacious, private room, prioritised care and gratitude. He would visit, of course, once Aunamee's condition was properly stabilised and he was well enough both to receive guests and show his appreciation- and so, after finishing at the office he was shown into the room by an attractive nurse who shut the door behind her as she excused herself. Marvelous.

"There you are, my friend." he said, his voice full of concern. "How are you feeling?"

When Aunamee had first met Timaeus, he thought of him as an enemy that needed to become his prey, a pillar of flesh and blood he would topple in his quest to destroy the people that had ruined him. Aunamee had charmed him, yes, but it was only a means of getting closer, a way to enter his circle and sprinkle cyanide into his drinks. But now Timaeus was a visitor -- his first visitor -- and he had provided him with special care and a special room. There was a possibility, slim but ever-present, that this man genuinely cared about him.

Aunamee couldn't let that go. It was a ringing in his ears, soft and even like a distant rainstorm. It was pressure under his eyes like cotton balls dipped in honey.

He didn't say anything. He simply trailed his hand down the bedsheets, palm up. An offering.

Touch.

Edited 2013-05-22 17:19 (UTC)

Timaeus had enjoyed enough dramas to know how this story began. The hand, moving weakly over the sheets- he would hold it in his, and squeeze it gently. I'm here, he'd say, and Aunamee's eyelids would flicker open, and his head would roll softly in his direction. He'd watch, concerned, and Aunamee's vision would slide into focus, just so, and his lips would curve into the barest of smiles.

Yes. That was how it was meant to happen.

Beginning the sequence, he crossed the room over to him and gently took his hand.

It was Aunamee who squeezed first, his fingers curling around Timaeus' palm as though he were reading it, seeking secret messages and whispers in the folds of his skin. He closed his eyes and lived in that moment, in that touch. (Punchy wouldn't give him this, not even in his death. How special this was.) He used all of his strength behind the grip, because Timaeus was his anchor. He had claimed him.

He was his.

Aunamee opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, the little tubes of oxygen tickling him just under his nose.

"You're a good man." His voice was weak and worn down. "A very good man."

Oh, he liked that. It was even better than the story he'd told himself. He squeezed Aunamee's hand back, warm and affectionate.

"The least I could do for a friend," he told him softly. "They tell me you will be fine, but that you need plenty of rest. I thought I would ask you if there was anything you would like brought..."

"Nothing," he said, his breath nearly a whisper.

He released his grip slowly, almost regretfully, his fingers lingering against the side of Timaeus' hand before retreating.

"Am I a friend?"

Timaeus smiled- a warm, broad smile, an indulgent one.
"I had rather hoped you might count me as one," he murmured, letting his own hand withdraw with an air of reluctance. "I am certainly not your enemy, and I suspect you could use a friend or two in this place. I was thinking about what you said, before, about ambition. I hadn't quite realised what I had lost before I met you that night."

The words were so beautiful. They washed over his face. They caught in his pores, between his teeth, on his lips.

"Is that so?" he asked, his voice never quite gaining volume, remaining quiet and breathless. He never once dropped his gaze. "Tell me, then. Tell me what you lost."

He dropped his voice even more, so low that it rattled in his throat like a sigh.

"No shying away this time."

"Ah, it's a story you want, is it?" he asked, fondness flooding his words along with the slow swell of pleasure at having this man's full attention. He felt compelled, somehow, to tell the truth. Only the truth would do, in this story they were telling together. He cleared his throat and began.

"I am the son of a man who built an empire, my friend. An empire of business, naturally, but an empire none the less. When I was younger, I treasured each and every scrap my father would let fall from the table, dreaming of a day when I might hold those reins myself, steer the ship in the direction I chose, and so on. I was content, for a while, with being placated- but when I realised the old man had no intention of, ah, not only ever listening to my suggestions but ever stepping aside... well, you can imagine. I'm not a young man any longer."

Punchy didn't bring flowers. When he thinks about it, maybe he should have, because that's the sort of thing one brings to hospitals (and funerals). There isn't really much precedent for how to apologize to someone you've killed, and Punchy hasn't really ever had the humility to consider what he'd do to apologize to someone he hurt.

So he puts his bare hands in his pockets as he stops at the door to Aunamee's room, which he has to admit is the swankiest digs he's ever seen someone in a hospital bed stay at. He stands there a long time, wondering Aunamee's asleep, listening to his own breath that seems to pull up in his sinuses. Finally, he speaks.

"Yo."

He's pretty sure there isn't a widely-publicized precedent for apologizing for killing people by saying 'yo'.

In the hospital bed, Aunamee is pale and boneless, his movements made up of languid lolls and heavy sighs. He is not asleep when Punchy arrives, but he does have his eyes closed to the bright sunlight ebbing in through the blinds. With the 'yo,' his eyes snap open rather than flicker, his shoulders tensing, his legs drawing inwards just slightly.

Once upon a time, his movements would have been smooth and even. He would have sat up slowly, almost lazily, the sweetest of smiles on his lips.

"Are you here to avenge your friend?"

He asks the question casually, his face stoic, but his grey eyes betray his fear.

Punchy winces. It stings, that that's what Aunamee thinks of him, that Aunamee remembers him as a killer and not as the one who draped a blanket over him and begged him to live. Who carried a skewered Topher from the killing field. Who lost an eye protecting some guy he didn't know.

All that matters is that he broke something inside this man's already-battered body.

"I ain't that kind of ho."

He walks up next to the hospital bed and stands there, waiting to see how Aunamee responds, trying to think about how white the sheets are, how nothing was left white in the Arena. Everything was dirty and muddy and grimy and bloody. Even bones.

He doesn't mean to flinch, but his body gives in all the same. His eyes flicker. His jaw hardens. He keeps his body still while Punchy approaches and, really, that is the great victory. Fear brings anger in the same way that a horse brings its rider, and if he could, he'd force his fingers into the boy's eyes until he felt something give under his skin. He'd make him scream. Yell. Writhe.

In the arena, Aunamee wanted the boy to kill him, and so he made the boy kill him. But it was a small, pitiful victory, and seeing Punchy's face reminded him of just how small and pitiful it was.

"Are you here to gloat?"

Every fiber of muscle in Aunamee's body that tenses pries Punchy apart a little more.

"No, not that kinda ho neither."

Punchy's next words burble up like the first primordial creature growing legs, growing lungs, and tugging itself up out of the mud into a frightening new place.

"I'm sorry."

It would be strange to say that the answer surprises him. After all, he heard Punchy begging for him to live and he saw the video, the way Punchy sobbed brokenly into his hands after he died. But Aunamee's certainty has been shaken, and without his certainty, any cry could be a laugh and any laugh could be a cry. This boy could be playing a role, masquerading as a sweet innocent whose facade breaks the moment it is questioned. Not unlike some people he knows.

His eyes widen with a brief confusion, a brief puzzlement. And then they soften.

"I forgive you," he says. "Of course, I forgive you."

This poor, sweet innocent.

"I needed to make sure you was..." Punchy clears his throat and looks out the window. It's easier than looking at Aunamee, or at those garish flowers people brought, or at the sterility of the floor. He can imagine he's flying away, proud, superheroic, greater than man.

Not trapped here in the hell of his uncertainty.

"Needed to make sure you was frosty. Making sure these nurse bitches is flossing you up a'ight."

"The nurses are lovely," he says, easing himself up so that his back rests against the pillow. He watches Punchy look away, noting every little twitch in his mouth, in his brows. Even without his telepathy -- or maybe because he doesn't have his telepathy -- it seems so important to take in the faces, to swallow every little detail like the muscles were a story.

He thinks he understands this boy's story. Perhaps.

"I'm not the vengeful type," he says, craning his head so that he can get a better look at his visitor. "If you're worried."

"Nah, nah, I ain't sweatin' that." It hurts that that's what Aunamee thinks this is, that this is about Punchy and not about the man lying in a hospital bed. But it is, isn't it? This isn't about Aunamee's guilt, after all.

"Just, you know. Glad these hos is treating you proper."

He walks over to the window and runs a hand over the sill.

It's his Escort who spills the beans to R. She can't help it: she's a gossip, plain and simple, and she'll dance around the matter for appearance's sake until she can't hold it in any longer. She gushes about how "poor" Aunamee's been attacked - stabbed! Here in the Capitol! They ought to save that sort of thing for the Arena! - and that's all R needs to hear. He's pointed in the infirmary's direction, his Escort happy to lead him over personally.

R doesn't have that many friends. Plus, his Escort adds, this will be good for your future performance in the Arena. It's all about maintaining these relationships.

Whatever. R shows up, shuffling in through the door in a new set of dress shirt and crisp slacks, because he likes Aunamee and he's worried, in that dim, zombie way of his. Clutched in his hands is a bouquet of slightly rumpled "Get Well" flowers.

The zombie sticks his head into the door, peeking in. Aunamee's lying there looking like he's halfway to being Dead, the sheets stark white, something beeping away.

"Can...I come...in?"

Edited (typos) 2013-05-25 06:05 (UTC)

The moaning, rattling words are a lullaby to Aunamee's ears. The drooping flowers are flecked with gold.

"Always," he says, and although his lips are dry, he smiles with his whole mouth. His teeth are forever white, forever impeccable, despite his tousled hair and ash grey skin. He sits himself up -- but it takes effort, small moans, little shudders, false starts. The frustration soon becomes too much, too overwhelming, and before he knows it, he's punching downward, burying his fist in the mattress.

He exhales.

"It's so nice," he says, his eyes fixated on the perfect white sheets, his hand still balled in a fist, "to remember that I have friends like you."

R has no idea what flowers these are. They don't really do the wild dandelions he used to see sprouting up between the cracks in the tarmac back home. All he knows is his Escort took his credit card, went in, came out with flowers and shoved them into his hands. Hopefully Aunamee likes them.

"Friends," R repeats, a grunt echoing after the human. He bobs his head in a nod, takes that as his invitation to start shuffling inside and look for a place to put these.

A few petals are shaken off and trampled before R decides to stick them next to Aunamee's head, the zombie looming over him and peering down at the half-Dead man. Up close he actually looks worse.

"Anything...I...can do?"

"No," he says easily enough, although he makes sure to lift his eyes and offer a weak, sad smile. Acting in this moment is only somewhat necessary. Empathy requires precision and finesse, abilities that are beyond him in this hospital room. But Aunamee has always understood gratefulness.

He raises his hand from the sheets so that he can brush his fingers against the flower petals. Little indentations. Little imperfections.

"Did someone tell you to visit me?"

"Wanted...to come...once I...heard."

Although he probably wouldn't have made it here in Aunamee's lifetime without his Escort's help so maybe it wasn't all him entirely. The zombie stands there, a few inches too close and dangerously close to bumping into the side of the bed, not sure what to do with himself or the fact that Aunamee looks like he could barely move. Sit or stand?

"Bad...luck, Aun...mee," R says, shifting his weight from foot to foot awkwardly.

"Not bad luck," he says. "Bad company."

It could be matter-of-fact, the way he says it, but it's not. There is something profound wrapped up in his syllables, something deep and dark and secret. It's as though he were entrusting R with the wonders of the universe. Or his life.

"Do you ever tell lies, R?"

R can see that.

Eventually R decides to sit, if only because it's something to do and it's always easier than standing there swaying. He parks himself in one of those stylish, but somehow still stiff plastic chairs, looking like he's slightly too big for it and it's making him hunch forward even more. The zombie's silent for a moment, thinking about his lying by omission with Julie.

"Usually...can't. Too...hard to..." R shrugs. Keep track of it. He goes on. "Very...rare, Aun...mee. Why?"

He smiles just slightly, and although there's still a brightness about it, his lips are crooked and weak.

"That's why I like you," he says. "Among other reasons."

He lets that hang for a moment, his eyes forever focused on the boy before him, his fingers trailing along the indentation his fist made in the sheets.

"You should never hesitate to defend yourself against the more dishonest types," he says. "Cruel types like the man who hurt me. You're better than they are."

R's still trying to figure out what those other reasons are, not sure what other selling points a zombie like him could possibly have, when Aunamee's speaking up again and he looks at the human instead of past. The fact he looks like he's been run over by a truck is downright distracting.

"Defend...ing?" He probably should've asked who did this to Aunamee, first thing when he shuffled in through the door, R's mouth pursing. "Who...did that...to you?"

R can't see the stab wound from here, although he did have to listen to his Escort's theories and breathy sighs about any scars they might keep for aesthetic reasons. From here, though, all he can see is the crisp sheets draped over Aunamee like a prison.

Jay hasn't come intending to see Aunamee. He is, in fact, trying to find a way out of the infirmary wing, having gotten lost while idly exploring. Looking for someone to point him the way out, he pokes his head into Aunamee's room.

"Ah, darling? Oh ..." he says, noticing Aunamee's condition. He's wringing his hands, uncomfortable at having intruded on someone's recovery. He wants to comment, but resists the temptation. "I seem to be lost. Do you have any idea how I might get out of here? I should really make an appearance at the Training Centre today."

He doesn't recognize this one, and that in itself spikes his curiosity. The strange ears. The curiously familiar darling. This is a man who still uses pet names even when death is all around him.

He lifts his head to get a better look.

"I only know these walls," he says. But he used to know so much more, and he tastes bitterness on his tongue. "Darling."

Jay grimaces at him.

"No need to be snide about other people's mannerisms, sweetness," he hisses. "Are you a prisoner here, then? Curious that they wouldn't let an ordinary patient walk around."

Alpha had heard about Aunamee--frankly it would have been difficult not to hear what happened, and was both amused and delighted to hear it. Once he knew just where he was going he headed straight for the infirmary room, with only one quick side trip along the way.

A side trip to buy a camera, expensive, photographer quality camera, which he had dangling around his neck as he knocked on the door and then entered without waiting for an answer. "How is my dear, anonymous pal doing?"

It was momentous, how quickly his mood soured. When he first heard the knock, he was elated (a visitor, oh how wonderful, a visitor!) but once he saw who it was, his smile slipped into a sneer. His eyes found the camera almost immediately. It looked so benign, so non-threatening. But he knew what it meant.

"Alpha," he said. "What a surprise."

The room was elegant, large, but Aunamee felt claustrophobic. He lifted his head from the pillow.

"I didn't know you cared."

"Really? What a shame. Of course I care, if you can't see that, clearly I need to be more open with my feelings." He took in the room with a critical eye, letting out a low whistle. "Somebody up there likes you, don't they? But then, you are the likeable sort."

He lifted the camera in one hand, gestured at Aunamee with it. "You don't mind, do you? I like to chronicle these special moments when I can, little hobby of mine."

"Cruel," he said, his lips flickering into a smile before falling. "But less unexpected. Are you acquainted with my attacker?"

It would make sense, he thought, but the frightening part was that he didn't know. It was frightening enough that he twitched, just slightly, the muscles in his hand tensing under the blankets.

Edited 2013-06-03 01:50 (UTC)

"The good doctor Grey?" Alpha said, ignoring the 'cruel' comment. Cruelty was a trait of humanity. They didn't yet have the words to properly describe him. "Acquainted is one word for it. He gutted me thoroughly a couple of Arenas ago." He glanced up from where he was fiddling with the camera settings to look at Aunamee. "Guess that's something else we have in common now."

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