bounce {meg} [blitz]

[✨ zozo.]

tiger chautin

I'd like to give whoever came up with this idea of the Olympics a Gold Medal. And probably throw them a ceremony, and a party, and their own parade.

I once threw this wicked party for a girl who lived down my street and we had food and cake and a water-slide, but then everyone got prickles in their feet from the grass so we had to move the water-slide to the front garden and that wasn't half as fun because the ground wasn't sloped. Because the Olympics have been a blast so far, District Four is nice enough, and I've been treated like a Princess. I'm not really used to the glamour and glitz of being an Olympian but I guess no-one else is either because this is the first Panem Olympics ever and I do hope that they continue forever and ever like the Games, because no-one dies here yet we're treated like tributes and it's a much better alternative if you ask me, but if it's anything like being a tribute, or even a Victor, it certainly is wonderful.

Like getting to bounce on your bed as high as you like and not getting in trouble for it. I used to do this a lot when I tried to shake away my thoughts, or just to tone them down a volume notch or two, but I always got into trouble from my parents constant arguing. Dad said I was just having fun and the bed was strong enough and Mom said I couldn't risk breaking the bed and that it wasn't proper behaviour and then Dad would tell me I could jump on whatever I liked and Mom would yell and I got all confused and muddled up, so I just stopped. But now, a thousand miles or so away from my quabbling guadians, I was allowed to do as I pleased. So I went up, and down, and twirled like the gymnasts and spun like the divers who were oh-so better than me, but it didn't matter what the scoreboard, or my parents, said. Because I was having fun.

"Oslo!" I yelled with a yelp as my body was flung upwards again by the creaking springs. This is so funfunfun Oslo should join me oh my goodness this is fun weeee! "Oslo! Come.... jump.... with... me!"

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[meg.]

You, with your words like knives and swords and weapons
You have knocked me off my feet again got me feeling like I'm nothing
You, with your voice like nails on a chalkboard

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You, pickin' on the weaker man [/size][/blockquote][/center]

OSLO BIRBECK

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My events haven’t started yet, and still here I am, queasy with nerves, fumbling with my fingers in anticipation. My stomach squirms as if it’s alive, some small animal that would like nothing better than to be within the safe confines of it’s home district. Contrary to my stomach’s protest, I’m enjoying the experience- or at least, I would be if I weren’t so nervous about bringing home a medal.

Daddy had words with me before I left. Told me about how proud I’d made him, and how it would just be the icing on the cake if I could bring him home a gold medal. Said that ‘If you can’t get reaped, surely it’s the very least you can do?’ His words seemed sweet enough, but there was so much malice contained in his steeled eyes. I know where I got it. Anyway, as if I could help not getting reaped. Believe me, if it were my choice I would have been a victor the year I turned twelve. A bloody good one I’d be, too- not like that Klaus twerp who seemed to have escaped the 61st arena purely by chance.

The chances of me medalling are slim, anyway- the events I managed to qualify for are all sword-based, and that’s not my strong point. Why on earth wasn’t there some form of knife event, anyway? It’s just added pressure on me, because I need to get it right, but I’m not sure if I can.

"Oslo! Oslo! Come.... jump.... with... me!"

To be perfectly honest, she’s been the best part of this trip so far. When we first met, she bugged me, but the envy of her carefree life has been growing through me like a disease. She really doesn’t seem to care what people think, only what she things. Tiger- even her name seems playful, without worry. And that’s why I do what I would normally run away from- I get up on the bed and jump with her.

She’s right, too. It is fun, the way my stomach feels misplaced, and my nerves seem to shrink away. Up, down, up, down- the rhythm, punctuated by our seamless giggles, seems to hold some form of contagion, and my face breaks quickly into a grin. I slip, and instead of getting back up, I tug on her wrist, gesturing for her to lie beside me on the slim single bed.

Why is it that when I touch her, it feels like I’m holding sparks in my palm? Surely, it’s not healthy that her smile is yet another thing that affects my stomach, making it squeeze in a way that’s almost enjoyable? And how come I, Oslo Birbeck, the most literate person in all of Panem, seem lost for words around her.

And all of a sudden I’m looking into her eyes and she’s so beautiful and I kiss her. I push my lips into hers and it’s like a greeting in a language that you can’t speak, you can only feel.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god, what did I just do?

Someday I'll be living in a big old city
And all you're ever gonna be is mean
Someday I'll be big enough so you can't hit me

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And all you're ever gonna be is mean [/center]
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[✨ zozo.]

tiger chautin

Kissing is funny. I mean, I've never had a real 'boyfriend' or anything, but I've always found it strange.

I played spin the bottle once when I was about 14 and had to kiss two boys, but they weren't proper kisses and I didn't really like them that much, boys kind of just avoid me because I'm a little strange. And perhaps it was because I'd been eating all the food samples that were shoved in my face all day and the jumping didn't help, or when Oslo slipped and for a moment I thought she'd hurt herself my sister broke her arm once and we had to go to the doctors and get it fixed and if Oslo couldn't compete because of me I'd be oh so upset and guilty and she'd probably never speak to me again - but when she landed on the mattress and tugged me down, my head readjusted itself, yet my insides didn't.

And suddenly, the Earth is turning very slowly, and Oslo's kissing me. On the lips. And it's weird, not like the weird that everyone calls me, or the weird that everyone at home thinks the Capitolites are like, or the weird like people think my sister is she's not weird, she's not weird, I'm the weird one, she's normal, normal, normal no she's not - it's a nice weird. Maybe I'm a nice weird, too. Nice enough for Oslo to kiss me, and for me to blink once, twice, three times before bursting into a giggling fit.

"Jumping's fun, isn't it?" I laugh, placing my lips on her nose. She's probably having so much fun that we're playing a new game, like throwing another ball into my juggling act, or balancing on a table instead. "Kissing is, too," I finish with a smile. "Diving was supposed to be fun, but I'm rubbish at that, so can I be rubbish at kissing too?" I ask, thought streaming out of my mouth like the swimmers in the pool before I have a chance to collect them. Hopefully Oslo was used to my jumble of blurb, swimming through the useless to get to the centre of my words and meaning that I was attempting to get across. "But you're good at kissing, Oslo."

And I return the gesture, wanting to win this game.

[/blockquote][/justify][/blockquote]

[meg.]

You, with your words like knives and swords and weapons
You have knocked me off my feet again got me feeling like I'm nothing
You, with your voice like nails on a chalkboard

[/color]
You, pickin' on the weaker man [/size][/blockquote][/center]

OSLO BIRBECK

[/size][/right]

My kiss doesn’t make her scream, but it doesn’t make her return it, either. It lingers in between us, my unspoken words thick, like a muggy summer’s day. And then she dissolves into her usual giggles, the sort that should piss me off but don’t.

It’s so typical of her not to take it seriously. To Tiger, life is but a farce, a big joke, a game. And I’m thankful for that, thankful that she didn’t freak the hell out, didn’t run screaming from the girl who’s supposed to be her friend. The girl that just kissed her. The girl who’s supposed to be perfect – the girl who’s a freak.

But then her lips brush my nose, and not in a patronizing way, either. Perhaps she hasn’t fully returned what I gave her, but I didn’t ask for it back. And she babbles on, a full spring stream, laughing and talking so fast that I can’t keep up. She talks about how rubbish she is at diving, which is true- I watched her come last in her event today. I wish I could be that relaxed about embarrassing myself; she hasn’t mentioned it once, doesn’t even seem to care. Thinking about the events makes my stomach ball up once again, though. Why is it that she, with all of her hyperactivity, is the only thing that calms me down?

"But you're good at kissing, Oslo."

And then she kisses me back, and it’s like a childhood toy being returned and a shiny new present all at once. I’ve been given a lot of things in my life, and I’ve taken a lot, too, but not many have been as good as this. I can’t tell if she’s serious or not, and to be honest, I don’t even care.

Now there’s something you don’t see every day – me, not caring. She must have magic powers.

“It’s easy to get good at things. You just have to practice, and know that you can get good at it. Me, I know I can be brilliant at everything, so I am.” No you’re not you’re rubbish you can’t even get a kiss right you can’t even make anyone love you.

“You want to get good at kissing? I can teach you.”

Someday I'll be living in a big old city
And all you're ever gonna be is mean
Someday I'll be big enough so you can't hit me

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And all you're ever gonna be is mean [/center]
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