Of all the money that e'er I spent...

[the_marshal]

WHO| Wyatt and OTA
WHAT| Wyatt takes his unexpected new pet for a walk.
WHERE| A Capitol cafe, not too far from Tribute Tower
WHEN| After this.
Warnings| None.



Loaded down with a pair of Miss Pasha's Tribbles and eager to show them off, Wyatt's escort had been quick to leave him to his own devices after leaving the woman's shop, which was more than fine by the marshal. He was happy to find his own way back to the Tower, his own striped Tribble riding along on his shoulder, purring softly in his ear.

Still unexpected, still surprised Pasha had insisted, without repayment, he still hadn't quite figured out what he was supposed to do with the tiny, trembling beast, but it seemed harmless enough and she had said they were easy to keep.... If nothin' else, he supposed Max would get a laugh out of it. This little bit, looking like something his tiger had coughed up in a corner somewhere.

More than once, Wyatt was stopped on the sidewalk by curious passersby, some who had seen Pasha's broadcast, and others who hadn't, but all wanting to know more about the strange creature cooing happily from it's perch as it was petted and fussed over. Dutifully, he answered what questions he could and for the rest, he directed them back to the little shop with its many baubles.

At a cafe not far from his destination, he was stopped by one woman at a table near the sidewalk, but within minutes had gathered a small knot of a crowd, all of them asking after his new friend.

Comments

[pillowmania]

"Something crowd-friendly," he offered, lifting his eyes in quick little flicks before finally settling on Wyatt's face. "Inoffensive. Popular opinion, that's something very important in a place like this. Not that it's something I follow, I don't really go for those 'for the masses' type things, but anyway, I'm not in the position you're in."

Sometime during the speech, his attention had broken away from the Tribble. His hand hung above its fur, poised but unmoving.

"You were smart. The Capitol loves pets."

[the_marshal]

Wyatt was silent through the little, impromptu speech. Polite, if bemused eyes resting on the man's face.

Unsettled sort, wasn't he? Maybe Pasha should have given him one of her friendly, cooing tribbles.

"I didn't get it for the Capitol," he said softly, when he got a chance. In truth, he hadn't meant to get it at all, but even if he had, he wouldn't have been because he was hoping for - sympathy - or whatever else from the eager Games audience.

[pillowmania]

"Of course you didn't," Katurian breathed, meaning every word of it, drawing back and making himself look small as though to erase the offense. "You think for yourself. You do things for yourself. You're not afraid."

He chanced eye contact, just for a moment. His smile returned, the sickly embers of a fire.

"Or you don't show it like everyone else."

[the_marshal]

"Why don't we say it's a bit of both," he replied, head tipping back, blue gaze peering at Katurian from under the dark brim of his hat. "An' call it fair."

Wyatt saw no reason to lie, saw no shame in admitting what was true of all men. To fear the arena, the Captiol, and the things they could do were only natural - and any man who claimed otherwise was either lying or inhuman, or both.

What made the man in Wyatt's eyes was his ability to push on despite it.

[pillowmania]

"I don't think it's a bit of both," he said with a quiet, crackling laugh. "I think it's one or the other. I think it's the second one."

It could be malicious, that laugh, the way it acknowledged the terrors the Capitol laid upon the outsiders with an almost glee.

"I know I'd be scared shitless in the arena."

[the_marshal]

That laugh prickled along the back of his neck, the short, dark hairs there lifting uncomfortably and standing against his skin.

"How lucky for ya then," he drawled, eyes sharp, brow furrowed gently just under his hairline. "That you'll never have to see it."

[pillowmania]

Katurian was not one to direct conversations. He stumbled through them in the same way he stumbled through most everything else (except writing, never writing) and each twist and turn was a surprise he held onto with white knuckles.

He didn't expect Wyatt to say those words, and yet he was relieved that he did. The conversation needed to get here eventually. It was inevitable.

"In a way," he said after a too long pause, his introspective musings temporarily halting his ability to communicate. He wrung his hands. "But in a way I do see it, or-- have, although I don't know why or how or even if it counts, really." He inhaled. "My name is Katurian, and I've lived in Panem all my life. All of it."

He extended a hand, his eyes locking on the other man's.

"You're Wyatt Earp, and you're a good man."

[the_marshal]

Now it was the both of them, each surprised by something the other had said. He managed to shake the man's hand purely out of reflex, than actual design.

"Katurian."

He remembered the tribute, the man that had reminded of him reeds, growing slight and tall, trembling and whistling against the wind. Pale and strange and vaguely disconcerting, but not an undecent sort.

Blue eyes like ice over a frozen stream, stared at the man before him as if seeing him for the first time.

Similarities were undeniable now that he knew to look for them, but so were the differences. They were hardly the same man.

"If yer askin' for my opinion, I'd have to say it doesn't."

The tribute had met his end in the arena, like so many others, and this man had merely watched, safe and sound from his home like any other citizen.

[pillowmania]

It doesn't. This was the answer he knew, the answer he expected. For all the troubles he had seen, Katurian would never suffer in the arena. He would never need to die countless times, never need to kill innocent others under an artificial sun. This was a good thing, yes, but it also made him feel cheated in a way, like his own suffering couldn't compare, like he was doomed to stand alone with the life he ruined all by himself.

"Yeah," he said, his voice heavy enough to contain the self loathing, but strong enough not to fail.

He dropped his hand.

"But that's not the point of this. The point of this is that I want to look out for you, if I can, and I want you to know that. I gave you a gift, last arena. Sunglasses."

[the_marshal]

His eyes flicked down the hand as it moved, the words the man said secondary, a whisper, as he realized that he'd missed it completely in the surprise. Fingers twitching, curling back against his palm, he looked back up, brow still furrowed, trying to recall....

"You wrote the poem." The pieces came together with a gentle click in the back of his mind, understanding washing across his face like a wave, smoothing the uncertain wrinkle.

It had been an odd thing - a few small printed lines on the white paper, no name - and had made him uncomfortable enough that the glasses had done little other than gather dust in the arena. (Though he offered them to Max.) But somehow, knowing now who the man was, it made more sense. Katurian, he'd been a writer.

His head tipped, a fraction to one side, eyeing this Katurian again.

"I... thank ya. That was mighty kind of ya."

Strange, but nice enough. Especially since he knew, without Max, he wouldn't have gotten much of anything.

[pillowmania]

It was immediate, the way Katurian absorbed that recognition. He saw the light of it in Wyatt's eye and then he took it, cherished it, and made his whole spirit drunk with the spark. Maybe this was the thing that made him so dangerous, in the end. More than his sardonic humor, more than his morbid fascinations. Pride was his demon.

Pride elevated him beyond his usual suffering.

"I'm not much for poetry, myself." He stood straighter. Spoke louder. "I mean, I think of them more like rhymes than poems, like things you say on the playground, stuff like that. What I really do is short stories, but that's -- haha -- another story."

He beamed at Wyatt, then his lips fell.

"It's nice to meet you, finally."

[the_marshal]

"Nice to put a face to the gift," he replied, the drawl soft, but honest.

He couldn't say it was pleasant to some strange copy of a man he'd known - so similar and yet so different - but, he would give the man the same benefit he tried to give every one.

The chance to prove themselves, to show their colors, before he decided one way or the other.