blood_thinner. hal&harley!

[[ retro gm ] angel lí ✨]

 

↳ HARLEYROYCE. 

She tries to ignore it, that drillbit into her skull. Around and around and around and he's doing it wrong. Peripheral vision; she puts blinders on and stays in the corner learning how to throw a knife over and over and over again until it lands and yet still her teeth grit, an ache in her jaw.

Maybe she just misses Maxen. An empty place in her chest shaped like telling a dumb kid off, correcting his flaws. Charlotte had always held an eye for perfection, flaws like neon lights in the dark. When her father had died and she'd been thrown into that same dark she'd thought she'd embraced the disheveledness of who she was when she emerged, blinking back that blinding light, but it seems not.

Hours tick by. Minutes. Her arm aches from the effort of hauling knives through the air and he's still doing it wrong. Knee twitch, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Breathe, calm -- whatever calm is, a foreign feeling. Maxen: that's what her calm is.

But her brother is so far away and she thinks she might explode, so Harley lets the fuse alight and marches over to the boy from Seven with the terrible posture and grabs at his shoulders, growling instructions all the while.

"You're doing it all wrong. Here," she twists his body into a correct stance, taps at the floor with the tip of her trainers, "stand like this. Dominant foot aligned with your shoulders, weight on your back leg. Not your front."

Harley takes a step back, assessing her corrections with a defensive fold of her arms.

"And unfurl your thumb. That'll snap into three pieces the second you land a hit."

[ coding by griffin ]

[knuckles]

I hate that I am stuck here.

It's hard, looking at everyone, seeing the different trainers eagerly awaiting someone to come to their stations to learn how to potentially survive the hunger games. It almost makes him sick to his stomach, yet his mind is running wild. Everywhere he turns, Hal tries to figure out what people are good at, but at the end of the day, he doesn't care. His entire life is on the line, and it feels as though nothing else matters. Nothing will ever change what is going to happen. Enjoying his last few days alive is ideal, but at the same time, Hal knows his family needs him to try.

Maybe that's why he's struggling to understand how to throw a punch.

Even as the trainer explains it time and time again, it goes over his head, and eventually, Hal simply walks away.

My heart isn't into it.

Self-defense is huge, it's important, and yet it doesn't even matter, it doesn't work. Nothing will ever change, but his mind is racing, and he wants to try again, but this time, Hal doesn't go to the trainer. Instead, he stands by himself in front of a dummy trying to knock it over with a few punches, but all of them are hurting his hands more than he ever imagined.

"You're doing it wrong. Here."

He nearly jumps out of his skin - who is this, and why does she have the audacity to tell him he's doing something wrong? He bites his lip holding back a sigh. Not everyone here is the enemy. Not everyone here wants to cause harm, yet she's a tribute, so why help someone? Why offer something that makes no sense? It's almost impossible to repay, but maybe, this is something that doesn't need repaid.

"Oh, okay. Thank you."

I guess.

Listening is hard when his mind is roaming, but he watches her stance, and listens closely, and had the trainer said all of this, Hal would've understood the task at hand. Dumbing it down makes it simple - perhaps the trainer assumes everyone has some sort of basic understanding of self-defense. Taking a breath, he tries mimicking her stance, but instead of putting his weight on his back leg, it's resting heavily on his front. It's not something that comes easily, and maybe it'll never happen.

"Like this?"

He folds his arms and leans forward unsure of if this is right.

Hopefully it's slightly better than before.

Most importantly, I don't want to break my own hand. Someone else can do that instead.

Credit to Pogue <3

[[ retro gm ] angel lí ✨]

 

↳ HARLEYROYCE. 

"Like this?"

"Better," Harley replies, keeping her face unreadable. Light eyes dart up and down, checking Hal's posture and stance - it is better, but he's not about to win a boxing match any time soon. Positioning is one thing, throwing a punch is another. But you've got to be confident in your swing. Put something more than just winning behind a punch. You have to feel it; all of it, that rage, that desire to hurt. It's paramount.

Harley knows this feeling all too well. She was born with it inside her, nestled and nutured underneath her skin as she grew taller with every year. But Hal from Twelve seems to have given up already; insecurity all over him. Funny, Harley thinks with a twitch of her lips - a Twelve just won the games and he's nervous? Three hasn't seen a victor in decades.

"Now picture something that makes you feel... well," she struggles for the right word and gives up, "something. Preferably angry, but any emotion will do."

When redirected correctly, any overwhelming feeling could be warped into a weapon. "Then channel it into your swing."

She steadies the punching bag hanging limply between them, positioning it for Hal's fist to connect. "Picture the thing that makes you feel that, right here," a finger taps the front of the bullseyed leather bag, "and make yourself known to it."

[ coding by griffin ]