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."
no subject
And heard him. Angry sort, he seemed to Wyatt, quick to lash out. Particularly after he'd been enjoying the many libations the suite had to offer - which was often.
"He's a friend'a yers?"
The way Howard had jerked and withdrew when Wyatt had tried to drown himself there after the last arena suddenly made more sense. Wyatt had never struck him, had never done anything to earn such fear,... but it wasn't really him Howard was reacting to.
More ghosts.
...Except maybe this one had been made real again.
no subject
"I just came, you know. To make sure he's sleeping on his stomach instead of his back, because sometimes he drinks too much." Howard brings a knuckle near his mouth and starts to chew on it absentmindedly.
no subject
"Couldn't tell ya, son," he said finally, taking a step back, giving Howard to move past him if he wanted to. "I ain't in the habit of peekin' in on him."
He wasn't his place to say anything. Yet.
But he'd be keeping a closer eye on the strange fellow from here on out.
Whether Howard liked it or not.
no subject
"He always forgets to lock it," Howard says, looking annoyed, as if complaining that a family member always left the TV on.
no subject
District 10 was very decent lot, as far as Wyatt knew them, and even the troubling Needleteeth woman (whom he'd noticed hadn't returned from the arena) wasn't going to get away with trying to bring harm to a fellow tribute.
And it wasn't as if the Capitol would need for the key, if they wanted in.
He shifted, leaning a hip on the chair Howard had vacated.
"He's alright then?"
no subject
Not that Howard blames the kids who broke in - they were desperate, to come into the house with the rock monster, and Howard broke into plenty of houses back in the FAYZ, going through trash cans and fridges and basements looking for anything, anything to eat or sell. He learned all the places people hide things - packs of cigarettes under mattresses, candy in jewelry boxes, granola bars inside bags of golf equipment.
He sits on the floor, glad to be near Wyatt, wanting just that calming presence near.
"He's fast asleep. Drooling a little."
no subject
"Well, ya know, it is late, son, ya should probably start thinkin' about doin' a little droolin' yerself." He nodded down the hall. "Can't speak for yer friend there, but ya know yer always welcome to share my room iffen ya'd rather stay than go back down to one."
no subject
"I killed everyone I'm afraid of in District 1." He runs his tongue over his teeth, breathing deep. "And they didn't come back."
Which makes him a murderer, makes him what he feared just as much.
But, importantly, he hasn't said no.
no subject
"I killed Aunamee."
R hated him for it, Doc had been pitying. Max had stared at him as if he'd never seen him before.
How would Howard react?
no subject
Howard's word is flat, dead. Like dirt trodden under someone's boot. Some kind of tension seems to leak out of him, as if his stiff spine is dissolving like sugar in water. He takes a deep breath and his lower lip shakes a little.
He looks at Wyatt and scoots a little closer.
"Fucker deserved it."
no subject
Aunamee would have swung, under any fair system, he was certain of that, but that didn't mean it was Wyatt's right to take that assumption and run with it.
Did it?
(There was no justice here.)
"He won't hurt ya again. Er anyone else."
(And he didn't regret it.)
no subject
He clutches the blanket tighter and closes his eyes. "Thanks."
no subject
"That's what family's for, Howard," he finally murmured, the response his heart kept circling back to, but by then, Howard had drifted to sleep and Wyatt's words were heard only by the fire, popping and hissing in return.
Exhaling, he pushed off the chair and quietly cleaned up, emptying the trash bin and returning to the kitchen. Dampening the fire, sliding the chair back where it belonged.
Then, as gentle and careful as he could manage he plucked Howard up off the floor, and carried him down the hall. He tucked Howard into his bed, blanket and all, removing only his shoes, then drew an extra set of sheets from the closet and made himself a nest at the food of the bed.
He fell asleep to the gentle whisper of Howard's breathing, crickets chirping in the forest on his wall, and the vague worry that he hadn't remembered to lock the door.