thecapitol | I'm Down Shouting Names at the Flickering Screen [Open]

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I'm Down Shouting Names at the Flickering Screen [Open]

WHO| Howard and anyone!
WHAT| Howard decides to get serious about the Games.
WHERE| Tribute Lounge
WHEN| Post-Arena
WARNINGS| Swearing.

There's been enough hiding. There's been enough moping. Howard knows that this feeling of motivation is fleeting, and that just means he has to cling to his productivity for as long as he can before it slips back into despair. Before he thinks about how he's going to die again. Before he wonders where Eponine is. Before he thinks about how she left him like his parents did. Before he cries.

So instead of feeling that, he's going to feel something else. He's going to feel entertained. And possibly, he'll learn something along the way; it's about time he forces himself to study. About time he moves past the squeamish feelings of seeing people he knows bleed and scream on the screen and actually starts taking notes on who to ally with and who to stab in the back, or, potentially, in the front.

He sits in a Tribute lounge with snacks, feet propped up on a glass coffee table, starving body covered in comfy clothes his stylists won't let him wear outside, a fluffy blue bathrobe and canvas cargo pants. His hand periodically moves from its path between bowl of snacks and his mouth to grab a cup of melted butter.

He doesn't care how tacky or unhealthy is it. He covers that bowl of popcorn in butter and plops down on the couch, munching away at it as he watches Wesker and Maximus attack each other.

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"Same place as all of my fairy tale wishes." More or less, anyway. Really, those things cost a lot. She owed way too much to that bitch of a witch.

Cindy raised an eyebrow at the... she didn't know what to call that. Not a blush, really, but he just seemed to suddenly shut down. And here they'd been having a pretty good conversation, and she assumed food would be a good subject to talk about with him. He got whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, here, and it was obvious he'd never had that before.

"...What about strawberry? I wasn't really a fan of the strawberry and banana mixes that they usually had for like... everything, really, but I loved red berry mixes. Strawberries, raspberries, and pomegranates. So long as something's filling, it's pretty good by me. I might not look it, but I'd give anything for those home style meals, which are not cooked by me. I don't do a lot of cooking, anymore. What about you?"

"I don't really focus on taste much, anymore." He shrugs, drawing his eyes along a pattern in the carpet. He's not quite sure how to explain it, that he thinks about sustenance every minute of the day, that his running internal monologue is a morass of fear, hunger, a mixture of the two, and only occasional intrusions by more sophisticated fare.

Most people could have a regular conversation about what they liked to eat. Howard can't. All it does is emphasize the gulf between him and people who haven't lived like him. It makes him feel like he's watching them from under ice while he drowns in cold water.

"Didn't really have much of a chance to learn good cooking." Creative cooking, sure - making food out of flour mixed with water, or cooking a lizard - but nothing he'd ever share with anyone but Eponine.

"It's your lucky day, kid! You're in a place where all they care about is taste. And you're stuck in it. Definitely fun, right?" Cindy shrugged, leaning her head back and staring up at the ceiling. Tracing her own patterns above, while he drew his below.

"You'd think someone who did all the cooking for her family would be a pretty good cook, right? That'd be some kind of assumption? It's hard to do good cooking on scraps." God, she had hated her stepmother and stepsisters with a passion. Sleeping in the ashes of the fire. Cooking scrumptious, huge meals for them every day, only to be fed the scraps that even a dog might not eat.

Being a princess felt like that, on a different level. Instead of begging for scraps of food, you were begging for honestly. For someone not to constantly be around you, because no, really, she could do it on her own, she didn't need to be coddled.

Cindy shrugged, raising her arms over her head and yawning. "Think you're going to watch more of the past stuff? You really should get a note book and make notes or something. Might be helpful."

"Yeah. I guess." He blinks a bit, then looks at Cinderella - or, more accurately, specific body parts. Her lips, her hair, her fingernails. The parts that wither and crinkle first when malnourished. "You grew up on scraps?"

He doesn't really believe it. He bets her version of scraps is better than his. Then again, he has a tendency to believe that the world can't get any worse than the one he came from - an immature body for hope, but one nonetheless. Things can't be worse than they were.

"I don't like to learn by writing. Reminds me of school."

"Not all secrets get revealed," Cindy smiled, wagging her finger. "It would just spoil all the fun in learning about someone, wouldn't it? No one wants to know the end of the story first."

All those fairy tales were never Disney version. They were never any one version, actually. But none of them were good.

"Good point. School isn't a great thing to think about. Maybe they have some kind of recorder thing? Speak into it your notes, see what they could be, all that good stuff. Could be fun."

"I do. I always read the last page first. You know, when I actually read, instead of just Spark Notesing it." He rubs his fingertips across his lower lip, eyebrows working as if he's trying to massage a knot in his own brow. "You know, that's a pretty good idea. And I got a better one."

He claps his hands together and leans sort of forward, still staying well away from any personal bubble of hers (mostly to protect his own). "You ever figure we could do like, commentary? Make a name for ourselves so maybe we can petition our way out?"

"That's not fun! What's the point of reading a book if you don't get to be surprised by the ending?" That was no way to live, really. Who wanted to know the end, and spend their whole life with the knowledge of how it happened? Some surprises needed to stay that way.

She leaned forward like him, but still far enough away that no one's bubble was being breached. "Commentary for the games? Like... whatever that guy's name is, Templesmith or something? Where we get to sit behind the desks and comment about what's going on?" That... sounded kind of fun, actually.

"What's the point of reading books at all when the internet exists? God, you sound like my mom." While his teasing is lighthearted, there's a certain venom to when he says that last word, as if he's been taken by surprise by how ugly it is said aloud.

"Well, yeah, kind of. But not like big budget like whatsisface. Like...do you know podcasts? We could make this seriously indie or something, like, made by Tributes for Tributes or something." His face morphs from mulling something over to excited by the prospect, dimples appearing at the side of his smile.

Cindy raised an eyebrow. Mommy issues? Not really that surprising. This kid grew up on the streets, right? So his mom had to be... not the best mom in the world. Cindy could think up all kinds of scenarios, but she knew she would never be told which was the right one.

"Do not ever compare me to a mom, just saying the word gives me the creeps." Not mothering material. She didn't have any good ones to look up to, but just. No. "Also, I listen to audio books, mostly, so fast forwarding to the end sucks."

That actually sounds like a good idea. A really good idea. "I love podcasts." Cindy grinned. "I listen to them all the time. And people pay attention to them, especially if the comments are snarky enough."

"Really? I thought all girls kind of had that mommy phase. Didn't you ever play with dolls as a kid?" He looks genuinely curious. He's really not had much interaction with the fairer sex, outside of your occasional schoolyard run-in.

He grins and folds his hands over his stomach. "I can do snarky, I can do way snarky. And I'm guessing you can too, so, you know. We could have a good thing going."

"Oh my god, really? No, I do not have a mommy phase. I have a protective phase where I'll rip someone's throat out to keep them safe, but no mommy there. And no, I never played with dolls as a kid. We didn't really do dolls back home, for me, anyway." She paused. "I played with mice."

Well, she did! They were cute and fuzzy and really the only thing she had for companions. They didn't talk or anything, but there were always nice to be around.

"I think we do. The two of us combined might be over-snarkified, but those are really the best ones, right? I'm really liking this idea right now, I mean. Just think of the possibilities!"

"I ate mice."

In a sick way, the animals he caught and killed and devoured were temporary companions. Back in the other Arena, he cuddled a stray cat before he broke its neck, kept stroking its cooling body as it laid limp in his arms.

As he looks at Cinderella now, he wonders if she did the same. If she was ever that lost.

"I'm game if you're game." He holds a hand out for a fist-bump.

She'd never ate a mouse. What purpose would that have served for her, really? She did get fed, it just wasn't anything good, or enough. But then those mice also got turned to horses at night, so, you know.

Couldn't lose one of your horses. But they were her friends, still. Not allowed to leave the house, cooking the meals, cleaning, mending, everything. She wouldn't kill friends. But she's not judging him for doing it. You resorted to anything to survive. She got it.

"I am one hundred percent game," Cindy said with a grin, leaning forward and bumping her fist against his lightly before sitting back again. "Just let me know when, and I'll be there." Thinking about the time, though, made her glance around for a clock.

"Shit. I gotta go, my escort is a real bitch, and I am not in the mood to deal with her passive aggressive sighs." She rolled her eyes, getting up from the couch and stretching with a yawn.

"Until next time, Howard?"

He rubs his knuckles with one hand, as if trying to smear the fistbump into his skin like a lotion, as if trying to absorb it and remember that one of the few times he got some human contact and enjoyed it.

"Glad I didn't shank you, Cindy." He turns his attention back to the TV, then picks up the remote and switches to cartoons.

She laughed. "Yeah. Me too." Cindy shook her head as she left. What an interesting conversation. What an interesting kid. She liked him.

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I'm Down Shouting Names at the Flickering Screen [Open]

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