Nothing's Changed [Open]

[vissernone]

Who| Eva and open
What| Eva plays chess in the park.
Where| Park in the Capitol
When| Week 7
Warnings/Notes| Description of cuts.

The bruises have faded into the sick yellow of urine. The cuts haven't healed yet, and wearing the bandages and stitches - old-fashioned medicine, less than what a Panem Victor could usually expect - is something of a scarlet letter. No one's forgotten that she was cavorting with a would-be assassin, but the Capitol's seen fit to remind them anyway, and unless she spends the next few months indoors Eva's damned to carry the message on her face.

She somewhat appreciates that the hook-shaped slash on her upper lip has pulled her mouth into something of a perpetual sneer. It fits her mood, lately. The cuts along her arms and cheek are a little less thematically appropriate.

The sunlight wafts down to her like steam. Her palm rests on a book in the park, her eyes strolling lazily over the words of a poem she's read a hundred times before. The other hand rests in her lap, on the demure grey fabric of a dress that could blend into any background. Eva doesn't need to accessorize; here, the white bandage around her upper arms and the patch of gauze on her cheek are eye-catching enough.

A chess set sits on the small marble table in front of her. The pieces are arranged up perfectly, each slit in the bishop's hat forming a perfect line. She looks out at the park, relatively unoccupied for a Sunday afternoon what with people watching the final week of the Games, and waits for someone, anyone to come challenge her.

She loves chess. It's just yet another game where no one has to win.

Comments

[dognapper]

Billy loves the summer heat. He loves the feeling of sweat underneath his knees. He loves the way that his sunglasses turn the entire world purple. He loves parks in the summer because he loves people-watching, and he loves people-watching because sometimes he sees unexpected faces with unexpected bruises. How nice.

"Hello."

He draws out the word like a song, a little crescendo on the 'o,' as he approaches Eva with his bright purple sunglasses and his gaudy shirt printed with little white and blue sailboats. The glee in his voice makes up for the lack thereof in his face. It's as though only half of him is ready to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation, the danger facing them all. The Victors.

"I can't leave you alone for a single fucking minute, can I."

[vissernone]

The sing-song of Billy's greeting is like the ugliest, most dissonant birdsong ever, and when Eva looks up to see him she believes that the outside package matches the tune.

Her lip curls, that little nub of separated flesh on each cloven side flaring around the cut. She sits back, dulls her eyes, flattens her affect. Sitting back, she folds her book closed and cocks her head to the side.

"You know full well that I end up with facial injuries whether or not you're around to protect my fragile body, Bickle." She arches a brow. "Do you play?"

[dognapper]

Billy rolls his eyes. With his otherwise stoic face, he resembles an old-fashioned clock, the hour and minute hands whirring while the face remains steady as ever. (In his bedroom at the Capitol, Billy owns a clock shaped like a cat, and its eyes swing back and forth with every click of its pendulum tail.)

"Come on," he says, because the question is ridiculous. He takes the opposite chair nonetheless, his fingers delicately holding its back as though it were contaminated before sliding into the seat. "Anyway, you got me. We both know you practically live for facial injuries."

He doesn't ask where they came from. Isn't it obvious? He hooks his arm over the chair and frowns at the chess board.

"Some fucking masochistic urge, or whatever. Hey, you got any cards?" He drums his fingers on the board. The game pieces rock. Tremble. "Maybe we can play some Old Maid."

[vissernone]

"It's not just masochistic if I also enjoy inflicting them." She arches a brow, puffs some breath out of her lips to blow a stray lock of hair from her eyes. "Sado-masochistic, maybe."

As benign as her tone is, as relaxed as her body is in the midday sun, she doesn't forget what they are: two ugly titans rounding on each other, fists full of dead bodies to use as bludgeons.

Once upon a time she found herself swifter than him, but her defenses are compromised now. She's out of favor. She's positioned herself better now that Ariadne's dead, now that everyone thinks she's foolish but dedicated to her Tributes, but that doesn't translate to day-to-day conversations so much as larger machinations.

"I'm surprised you went for age over habit and didn't offer to play Gin Rummy, Bickle." She reaches into her purse, a sleek black thing with a hundred hidden compartments she hasn't found a use for yet. Yet. "As a matter of fact, I do have cards."