HERNANI GOES BANANAS! [kayblitz]

[doodle :)]

A list of things Hernani could be doing right now:

1. Finishing setting up his work station.
2. Finishing the prototype for the chariot and interview outfits.
3. Sleeping.
4. Discussing tribute fittings with the prep team.
5. Going over the schedule with the prep team for the upteenth time (they like to forget things).
6. Anything that wasn’t “this.”

What Hernani is doing right now:

1. Skulking around at a party (otherwise known as “this”).

He wasn’t so much invited as he was mandated to attend. Apparently the stylists and escorts want to “meet and greet” the newer additions to their little clique. Why does it have to be the week before prep week – you know, the busiest time of the year for literally all of them? Hell if he knows. He just knows that he’s professionally obligated to go (it said so on the invitation).

Why does everything have to be so blinking loud all the time? Everything blares at a party. The music pounds into Hernani’s head and doesn’t even sound like music at all, just some giant frog heaving its lungs up at you, so loud that people have to shove their faces into Hernani’s and bugle at him just to be heard. It’s…gross, to be honest.

He figures if he just has one quick conversation that doesn’t go over a half-hour, he’ll fulfill whatever quota is expected of him. Of course, it’s kind of hard to start a conversation if you don’t know anyone. That’s what idling around the punch-bowl is for. Hey, if it worked in high school…

“So, um…” He doesn’t speak to anyone in particular. Just the crowd maundering around him. “Heard that tulle prices went up. Crazy economy, huh?”

jay! <3

[garnet beauford d8 [earthling]]

BANANA OPPENHEIMER

A party! Could there be anything more exciting, especially during the Reaping season? Banana could simply think of nothing better. Of course these days, as a salaried Stylist to District Eleven, she fielded enough invitations that she had to be picky. She did so hate to turn anyone down but there were only so many hours in the day. This particular event had been framed as mandatory but she didn't see the need: surely anyone invited would be delighted to attend. It was such a treat to be absolutely surrounded by others who loved fashion the way she did.

Banana spent more than her fair share in the camera booth. When she emerged twilight had descended, making the event far more cozy. She waved off the first pass of champagne, wanting to keep her wits about her in case Marsha needed something, needed anything. But as the night wore on she found herself eager for some variety.

Swishing her short train she siddled up to the punch bowl. Laddle in hand, she was about to ask if it was spiked when a gentleman spoke up. "Heard that tulle prices went up. Crazy economy, huh?”

"What!" Banana exclaimed, dropping the laddle into the bowl with a tidy splash. She grabbed one side of her skirt and darted around the bowl to stand right beside him. "Now? Are you sure? I -" she glanced sidelong towards the crowd, trying to pick out Marsha, which in any other room would be easy, but in this one proved quite the challenge. "I'm going to be in so much trouble. I'm the junior Stylist for District Eleven and I do all the ordering and it occurs to me that I might not? have put that order in?"

Banana lifted her long eyelashes, batted them several times. "It's Hernani, isn't it?"

[doodle :)]

A girl comes rushing around the bowl, gripping at her skirt so she can move faster. She seems frantic, going on about shipments and trouble and whatnot. Apparently the economy wasn’t the cheeriest conversation topic. Who would’ve thought. “Oh, yeah?” he says absently, expression dull, though in a quiet distant way he is truly sorry. Sort of like when you hear about a celebrity who died – one who was very popular ten years back but you never actually cared that much for them.

“It’s Hernani, isn’t it?” He goes a little rigid at the sound of his name – it scatters him; he spends an entire fifteen seconds trying to figure out how this girl knows him, all while trying not to be distracted by the way she keeps bloody blinking at him for some reason, before he reminds himself that he’s a stylist. Both of them are stylists. They’re supposed to know each other through the grapevine. Directories, newsletters for the Training Center workers; tabloids, news anchors…

Fame. Right. That’s a…thing now. Or something.

“Yes, it is,” he says, trying to brighten up a bit for the sake of friendliness. “And you’re, uhhh–” Hernani squints at her and grimaces like someone who’s lost their glasses, his face twitching almost mechanically. “Uhhh–...”

Come on, Hernani! Come on, come on….uhh…District Eleven…uhhh…junior stylist, uhh…f-food– Eleven grows food– they’re both…food…uhh…j-...junior…blonde…yellow…like a…like a…

Don’t be an idiot, Hernani, that’s not her bloody name.

…Right?

He remembers, face going blank, about this one time when he was watching the news, some sort of segment about someone making out with this escort (it made him very uncomfortable), and hearing this name– and then he couldn’t help himself. He had banged his fist against the breakfast table and started laughing. Shrieking, more like. Like a mad man. It was detestable. He felt like a degenerate. This poor girl had probably been made fun of all her life for a name like that. And there he was. Laughing. Like a jerk.

Of course, at the time, his remorse didn’t really stop him from laughing at her. He still felt bad about it, though.

“You’re, uhh–” Don’t you dare laugh now, Hernani. “B–” Don’t you freaking dare. “Ban–” DON’T YOU DO IT, HERNANI. “Ba–Banana…?” he practically whimpers, his entire body trembling with a herculean effort, the chords of his throat taut as he chokes and sputters on what could have very well been a laugh.

At least he isn’t laughing.

He clears his throat abruptly. “Pretty name,” he mumbles, glancing aside so she won’t see his smirk. His nervous hands dart out for a cup and the punch bowl’s ladle, partly for the sake of fidgeting and partly to give him a good excuse to turn away from her. Some harsh alcoholic smell stings his nostrils as he pours the punch into the cup, but in his haste to look casual (i.e. not like a jack-ass) he chooses to ignore it and knocks it back. A shudder runs down his spine. He nearly spits it out; it’s like being punched in the mouth.

He chooses to continue drinking it anyway. Might as well. It’s in his hand, after all.

jay! <3