Requiem to the Dead || Atticus & Hunter

[Arrows]

There's that place where she's always been better. From nothing, she can craft cathedrals anointed in the sweetest of decadence without so much as a single thwarted thought. Do not know the venom with which truth taints the plains of the living. Perhaps nothing more than a sentence out of a book he has read, but maybe it's the secret to his sister's source of survival. How she always is able to find peace in the perils of her lies, he may never understand. Yet, if it keeps that smile for even a single day longer. If it keeps her laughter alit just another day longer. Anything for just another day, another minute, another second.

The evening air carries the sharp snap of winter on its breath as Hunter steps out onto the silent street. The muffled myriad of children giggling burbles out from behind the front door now solemnly shut behind him. Their innocence has overshadowed yet another fight imbued with pain masked as fury between Victoria and himself. The ticket, purchased by her, is shoved deep into the basins of his pockets and yet he can still feel the steam leaking from his head. Why is she spending money to spoil him when they need it for her treatment, for her... A sharpness more like a sword than silence grits his teeth. He knows he can't say it's for her future anymore. She's just trying to care for him while she still can and it just...

A scream more like a wail screeches out of Hunter's lips as the bitterness of tears sting at the corner of his eyes. He wants his sister for longer, not a ticket to see the orchestra and yet... for her he finds himself walking away from the door and down the winding winter road. Can those that are peering out of their windows tell that he is walking with more weight than just the coat pulled tightly to his skin? No, of course not. His walls have always been a fortress where he can hide. Hunter Holmes never lets his pain show.

Feet fall silent along their march towards town as they stop before the dimly lit sign of some bar better left forgotten in the mornings after. Most would walk past and never even notice it exists. However, here he stands as though some statue frozen by the cold simply staring towards the swaying sign swathed in rust. It was here, in this place of forgotten memories that it all began. Even to him it still almost feels as though a story torn free from the pages of a novel. A girl meets a guy and they drink too much. Then the girl has three babies and never tells the man. Hunter's breath hanging on the ice of night is all he leaves behind along with those pictures of the past.

As a soft swell of evening air frosts over the edge of Hunter's nose, it carries with it a surge of struggle. The faint fragrance of cigarette smoke dances on its wings. It's been almost six months since he's had the chance to taste the apex of his temptations. A vow to them, to those three faces who will soon have only him to turn to. She is going and he can't soon follow her for their sakes. Instead, he shoves his face deeper into the scarf wrapped around his neck. Let it be both shield from self and warmth from the cold.

The deeper into the Square, the more alive the District seems. All around people meander between shops and share laughs under low lit lamps. Couples walk hand in hand exchanging kisses and longing looks of earnest affection. Hunter huddles further into his scarf walking quicker towards the theatre. His world isn't the same as their's. Their's is full hope while his is dying back at home.

Warmth washes in a wave of relief over Hunter as he enters the lobby. Amid the sound of hushed voices, the crescendo of instruments tuning together ripples through the din of the arriving crowd. Fingers fumbling for his ticket, Hunter tries to even recall where his seat is when he suddenly stops. The music is gone and the everything else freezes in motion. There is only the shaking of his breath and the face of Atticus Manor.

He's here. Of all places, he's here. A Victor to some, a Mentor to others, and a Secret to him. Not even the heart inside of Hunter's chest can will itself to beat. Not even breath can break into his lunges. He's here and she's... the world resumes motion.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a classical music kind of guy, but then again I've only ever heard stories."

Ones that he doesn't even know have another chapter.

[mat]

The hall of marble floor echoes a tune empowered by his pace. Atticus Manor is lonely. Friends appear to come and go unceremoniously in his circles. For one moment, they appear, ever-present and involved in his life. He sets aside all of his energy for them in that breath, but over the span of a few months, the energy fades into a lull, a hum that only a quick glance across the street can awaken. The urge to say hello again dims in its urgency. The marble halls are louder when nothing but the soles of his dress shoes mark the grounds. Atticus is lonely yet fearful to hold onto a relationship, platonic or dynamic, for too long. The cycle demands a heavy toll to be broken.

He's considered a remodel of the place in an attempt to make it less archaic. The last person who lived here was made of money and had a pleasure for the classics. If it had been another victor, Atticus was never told, but the aesthetic has always left him some discomfort. Would it be disrespectful to tear the place apart and start anew with warmth and coziness? Atticus is within his financial means to do so. Other than the necessities, most of the Capitol's checks find their way into his savings. Saving for what, he's also unsure, but he's saving. He's lived in the mansion for nearly fourteen years and he's left everything he owns untouched, save for the decorative remodeling of his bedroom.

Perhaps his environment has defined who "Atticus Manor" is as a victor personality. Nothing about his home says 'homely.' If anything, elitist comes to mind. Even in District Three, whose wealth is secure, his home is an aged museum. The marble floors, antique cabinets and tables, paintings, statues, and books that predate Panem's origins present the mark of a historical site rather than a home. He'll be thirty years old in November but might as well have lived in the Dark Days with this home.

He's lived up to the reserved wealthy gentleman side of him through his actions. Interests outside of his home are far and few between. Libraries and the orchestra are among his most popular out-of-the-house destinations, other than a walk through Three's Green District. The modern-day developing interests in District Three are constantly evolving, but Atticus remains caught up in his thoughts and dedications of the past. He paces around the black and white checkered hall for a few more minutes, tidying up the shelves and reorganizing the scenery. Maybe it'll surprise him when he comes home. He grabs his coat, throwing it around his shoulders before checking his pockets on his way to the door. Wallet, glasses, a pocket knife. Enough for a night out. The frost marking the window reminds him of the chilly weather of late autumn and he grabs a soft yellow and navy scarf from his coat hanger to guard against the cold.

The library is open until seven, and the orchestra's night show starts at eight. That's a good enough window for Atticus to find a few more books to read, enough for the next two weeks, before catching the show. His feet avoid the cracks in the sidewalk. He may have won the Hunger Games, but Atticus Manor is a clumsy fellow. Everything in the Victor Village, the population two, still feels like a trap to him, but the seclusion helps him feel as safe as possible. There are people out in the district who loved Danny Brooker more, holding out their grudge for him killing her to this day. Or, at least, that's Atticus's safety net excuse not to wander late at night.

The library is only a few blocks away. He's greeted by the custodian of the multi-story building, Tilre Ashby. The elderly man, nearing his seventies, has been employed for the library since before Atticus could remember. His parents would take him here on occasion, letting him pick out some biography books surrounding District Three's finest tinkerers. Recently, however, his books of choice have turned to fiction. The wonders of fantastical outlandish creatures and their journeys entice him. Confined to District Three and occasionally the Capitol for the foreseeable future, he's learned to be grateful for his imagination, especially when he's failed both his tributes again and there's little left to fight for. Atticus smiles to Tilre, who points him in the direction of front-line novels. The old man learned Atticus's preferences quickly, leading to a quick and easy exchange. He thumbs through the hard-cover selection, picking out the ones with the most intriguing titles. Once he's got three in hand, he balances them over to the librarian. Thirty-one dollars and twenty-eight cents. He fiddles simultaneously to grab the necessary cash from his wallet and delicately stuff the books in his satchel. He leaves one of the books on the table, though, knowing he'll get a few chapters in as he travels. The orchestra is a half-hour walk, and he'll need something to help pass the time.

He's got the book inches away from his face, careful not to trip as the sidewalks turn and curbs dare him to fall. The novel is a story dedicated to one of the older victor's, now long and gone, and their life story before they won. The story isn't exactly factual, it's marked as fictional for a reason, but the idea of normalcy intrigues him. Atticus is three chapters in when he reaches the orchestra's doors. He shows them the season ticket from his wallet and walks in, putting the book back into his satchel.

He's ushered into one of the higher rows. Atticus didn't want a front-row seat, despite that being exactly where season ticket holders were designed to sit. Enjoy from a distance, without garnering too much attention. He crosses his legs, reading through the performance pamphlet while the pianist plays an elegant tune filled with the pace of a wanderer, unsure where her next note will fall.

Atticus's eyes glance up for just a moment to see a pair of eyes on him, the rest of the gentleman's body motionless as the gentle music continues to play. He can feel the man lurking. Now he's walking over. Atticus digs his gaze back into the pamphlet, looking to see if there's anyone in the orchestra he knows. Of course, there's not, but it's the only excuse of avoidance he can grasp at with any success.

But then the man's tone begins. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a classical music kind of guy, but then again I've only ever heard stories."

Atticus Manor is a mystery to those who don't know him, and those who don't know him are most. "Yes, well, the music is calming. Records in the manor don't do it justice." He lets the pamphlet float down onto the ground beside his satchel. Unsolicited social interaction scares him, but his status warns that hospitality is expected. "And you are?"

With those words, the pianist changes her tempo with higher consistency, marking a rise toward a crescendo. A defining moment ready to break the song of the past.

a. m.

elegant