Howard Bassem (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2013-08-21 04:44 pm
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in thecapitol2013-08-21 04:44 pm
Entry tags:
You Blame Me and I'll Blame You and We're Both Right [Closed]
WHO| Howard and Wyatt
WHAT| Guilt is strong with these two.
WHERE| D10 Suite
WHEN| A few days after the date auction.
Notes/Warnings| None, but Howard will recollect on his gruesome death.
The Flinch is back.
That's what he calls it, The Flinch. Capital T, capital F. The way he jumps at loud sounds, the way as soon as anyone moves too quickly his eyes squeeze shut and his neck jerks back and little beams of electricity rush down his wrists. The Flinch, some preconscious reaction to everyone he meets, friend or foe, that once upon a time he had some control over, but has, for the last few days, won the battle. It follows him around like a personal raincloud that thunders and zaps him whenever his brain registers a threat, which is often, which is always.
The Flinch, as if it's its own entity and not a part of him at all.
It's not even just people; sometimes it's anything moving too fast, like the way the elevator door seems to snap open instead of yawn. After catching his breath, he edges one foot over the metal frame on the floor, until the doors threaten to close again, and then he sneaks into District 10's living suite. It's late, and everyone's either sleeping or out on the town, but there are people he doesn't mind rousing. At least, not enough to stop him. He moves quietly, feet dragging a centimeter above the ground like he's walking on air.
He stops when he realizes the fire's still burning with no Avox to tend it, and peeks around an armchair to see that it has an occupant, unrecognizable as a silhouette ringed with the dim glow of the flames. His eyes drop down to the legs of the chair and see the shadow of boots joining them.
The entirety of his insides seem to hollow out.
"Hey."
WHAT| Guilt is strong with these two.
WHERE| D10 Suite
WHEN| A few days after the date auction.
Notes/Warnings| None, but Howard will recollect on his gruesome death.
The Flinch is back.
That's what he calls it, The Flinch. Capital T, capital F. The way he jumps at loud sounds, the way as soon as anyone moves too quickly his eyes squeeze shut and his neck jerks back and little beams of electricity rush down his wrists. The Flinch, some preconscious reaction to everyone he meets, friend or foe, that once upon a time he had some control over, but has, for the last few days, won the battle. It follows him around like a personal raincloud that thunders and zaps him whenever his brain registers a threat, which is often, which is always.
The Flinch, as if it's its own entity and not a part of him at all.
It's not even just people; sometimes it's anything moving too fast, like the way the elevator door seems to snap open instead of yawn. After catching his breath, he edges one foot over the metal frame on the floor, until the doors threaten to close again, and then he sneaks into District 10's living suite. It's late, and everyone's either sleeping or out on the town, but there are people he doesn't mind rousing. At least, not enough to stop him. He moves quietly, feet dragging a centimeter above the ground like he's walking on air.
He stops when he realizes the fire's still burning with no Avox to tend it, and peeks around an armchair to see that it has an occupant, unrecognizable as a silhouette ringed with the dim glow of the flames. His eyes drop down to the legs of the chair and see the shadow of boots joining them.
The entirety of his insides seem to hollow out.
"Hey."