Conversations With Cranes | South

[L△LIA]

Somehow the sky
Is holding up the heavens
But I can't get the ground
To hold the earth up
Anymore

"Three hundred and eighty-one."

Atticus gently nestled the newly folded paper crane into the flock that sprawled haphazardly through the grass around him. The origami birds tumbled over one another, piled into a miniature mountain range that encircled their blond creator. They looked up at him with crooked beaks and uneven wings; after making so many, he should have had the folds down to an art form and yet each one was crippled with more flaws than the last.

It's the thought that counts, Atticus reminded himself with a wry smile as he pulled a fountain pen and a fresh sheet of parchment from the gray canvas rucksack laying beside him. The paper itself was as imperfect as the angular creatures he was creating from it — rejects, from his recently failed attempts at making his own paper, that his grandfather had deemed unfit for use in the bindery. Despite the warped surfaces and uneven colorings, Atticus still saw something beautiful in each piece and couldn't bring himself to throw them out as he'd been instructed. Perhaps they were useless to other people, but in this small way he could still give them a life and purpose of their own.

Their presence was a comfort to the loneliness that had been weighing heavily on him lately. It had been years since he'd left his parents and younger brother, moving across the district so he could learn bookbinding from his grandfather. The apprenticeship was the best thing that had ever happened to him, providing him with the opportunity to put his modest talents to use and learn how to construct books, a subject which had always captivated him. Still, as happy and appreciative as he was, the work had consumed him, leaving him short on friends, and it certainly didn't stop him from missing the family he had left behind.

Pulling the pen cap off with his teeth, he absently tongued the cold metal in thought for a few moments before reaching a decision. With effortless skill, he scrawled a short message onto the paper in his lap. Each letter was swirled out in his trademark calligraphy, a cacophony of exaggerated flourishes and decorative accents. This was something Atticus did with expert artistry; some might argue it was the only thing he was truly talented at. Most of his efforts, like the handmade paper or origami cranes, were marred with mediocrity.

I want to see everything.

Tracing over the ink's twisting pathways with his fingertip, he thought back to all of the stories his father and his grandfather had ever told him — stories that not only stretched beyond his own quiet life, but to the world outside the fences of District Seven. There were bits of truth hidden within their tall tales and Atticus desperately wanted to claim a piece of them for himself. The idea of actually running away and adopting the life of an explorer, and with it that of a wanderer and fugitive, terrified him though. It was one thing to daydream of oceans, mountains, and canyons, to romanticize a life that was so disparate to his own, but it wasn't an aspiration he could act on. Although not grand or flashy, he had the kind of easy and content life that less fortunate residents of Panem would kill for, and yet sometimes he couldn't help wishing that he would stumble into some unlucky circumstance that would force him to run from it.

Carefully creasing the parchment, he enfolded the words into the belly of another paper crane where they could be kept hidden and safe. Perhaps he didn't have anyone to confide in, but the birds knew how to keep his secrets. Each of them held one of Atticus' thoughts within them, like tiny shrines for conversations he'd never given a voice to. "Three hundred and eighty-two," he murmured to himself as he added it to the crowd.

Drawing his knees up against his chest, he wrapped his arms around them and huddled into his own body warmth, staring idly at his handiwork. Three hundred and eighty-two. He had once read that folding a thousand paper cranes could grant a wish and that would mean he was only six hundred and eighteen away from one of his desires becoming a reality. A soft laugh of amusement shook its way through his body at the idea, "I wish it were that easy — I'd turn you all into real birds."

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[Deleted]

I still remember the world
From the eyes of a child
Slowly those feelings
Were clouded by what I know now

You're not sure what prompted you to leave the manor today (it was an irritating cocktail of Adrian interrupting your violin practice and Julian bringing that obnoxious District girl of his into the house again and that look from your mother that warned you she was gearing up to launch into the darling, when are you going to get married and give me some grandchildren? speech for the millionth time), but the rare sensation of the sun on your skin is so unfamiliar that it throws you momentarily off balance as you set off into the woods, leaving behind marble pillars and mahogany halls full of people you just can't deal with right now. Town is an hour's walk from your front door and you're not so sure that you want to escape your family only to be forced to mingle with the unwashed masses, but for now you content yourself to meander along the well-worn path that cuts through the bracken around you, stormy eyes still half-narrowed in annoyance at the universe.

Today has been difficult, mainly because of the still-raging hangover that greeted you when you woke up this morning, causing your head to throb unpleasantly at the slightest provocation of light or sound, limbs leaden and tongue reluctant to deliver its usual amount of carefully measured poison into the world. You will never, ever understand what makes Julian hate you so much that he made it his personal mission to drag you kicking and screaming out of bed and into the world of the sober, but if that wasn't enough to warrant the Worst Brother Ever Award, then the shiny new padlock waiting on the liquor cabinet for you when you stumbled downstairs for a pick-me-up certainly was. It wasn't so much the fact that it was there - you are skilled in these matters and had the thing jimmied open in under a minute even with your fuzzy mind and fumbling fingers - rather than the principle of the thing, you remind yourself as delicate fingers curl into fists at the recollection, bright rays filtering their way down through the canopy of leaves and baking their way into your pale flesh. For a moment you almost consider turning back since you have nothing to accomplish other than your feet acting up to cause you unwarranted agony and a probable sunburn, but then you remember the undesirable human contact that waits for you at home, so you grit your teeth and continue to wander along the trail, achy feet and burning skin be damned.

In retrospect, storming out of the house may or may not have been a good idea. It was highly gratifying to watch the shocked gapes on everyone's faces when you actually flung open the front door and took that rare step out into the daylight, but now you realize that leaving the house in a pair of designer jeans and a nice blouse on a hot summer day was probably one of your more foolish choices. Nature tends to ruin pretty things like you.

You've never been one for the outdoors, much preferring things like air conditioning and comfortable couches to grass and dirt and the sweat that begins to trickle slowly down the back of your neck, but the discomfort is worth it to be away from countless people wanting countless things and not just leaving you alone with your violin and vodka like you so desperately wish they would. And as much as you hate to admit it, it's a rather lovely day despite the heat, birds singing and breeze blowing and all that tree-hugging malarkey that people tend to prattle on and on about, given that you live in the forestry district. So even though you're sweating and your feet are beginning to throb quietly, you can't help but feel a little more lighthearted than usual (for a moment you consider letting a smile grace your lips but think better of it), slowing your brisk steps to an aimless shuffle and casting your gaze around, trying to figure out where to go from here. You've reached a literal and figurative for in the road, and for a moment the swelling indecision drowns out the rest of the contents of your still half-muddled thoughts.

"Three hundred and eighty-two."

The voice is almost inaudible and for a moment you think you may have only been imagining it, but then it sounds once more, a quiet mumble from somewhere along the path to your left. This should be a clear indication for you to make a right turn (after all, you silly girl, aren't you out here because you wanted to get away from people?), but your feet seem to move of their own accord, carrying you over the hard-packed dirt. You almost miss the huddled form on the ground after you've walked a few paces, actually, you would have missed him if it hadn't been for the mountainous pile of paper creatures on the ground beside of him. An eyebrow arches and despite your utter loathing of mankind at the moment, you can't help the curiosity brought on by the menagerie of parchment.

Against your better judgement you advance toward the boy, studying him. He seems oblivious to your presence, all dark, unfocused eyes and startlingly contrasting hair that is every bit as blonde as yours is black. He looks to be innately preoccupied with something, although not in the sulky, irritated way that you are, but more dreamy and far-away, like he's chasing fairytales. You've never liked dreamers, and it shows in the unintentionally flinty edge of your voice as you step out of the trees and into the light. "What are you doing?"

Sometimes you wish you could interact like a normal human, but most of the time being a vindictive bitch is more enjoyable. This time is no exception.

((Ugh. So this was my very first post ever with Helena. I certainly hope she gets better))

[/size]

[L△LIA]

( A T T I C U S J E R I C H O J A C Q U E S )




Balancing on one wounded wing
Circling the edge
Of the neverending
The best of the vanished marvels
Have gathered inside your door

The paper is cool against my fingertips, its predominantly smooth surface marred with the occasional knot of twisted pulp. Those are my favorite places, where the fibers gather in a whorl of braille, transcribing some forgotten language I am unfamiliar with, but wish I knew. Still, their elusive words resonate somewhere within me and we reach a silent understanding, these flaws and I. I am no stranger to imperfection, so whenever I encounter a new one, we are like old friends.

My adventures of solitude are broken by the arrival of a girl who is the embodiment of everything that is the opposite of my paper. There are no defects sullying her skin, her pale features so pristine as to spark a moment of jealousy within me. Her face makes perfection appear effortless, and it must be, when you're born with it. It is this thought that prevents her from feeling wholly exotic to me — if flaws are friends, perfection is family. It is a trait everyone surrounding me seems to possess, always so close that I could reach out and touch it, but elusive enough to escape whenever I attempt to claim it for my own.

"What are you doing?" Voice gilded with a sharpness that cuts through her initial appearance, she suddenly reminds me of my parents and all those difficult years of homeschooling. Try as I might to ignore the memories, I can't help flashing back to the tone in their voices after having explained something for the fiftieth time and my being no closer to understanding than before they'd begun. I feel myself flinch instinctively against the sound, that familiar sense of inadequacy welling up in my chest, before glancing up at her, meekly, wishing I had the words to reply, but knowing I'll be unable find them now. Not when the intimidating echoes of that particular tone are still caught in the memory of my ears.

When I first open my mouth, determined to speak despite the difficulty, nothing comes out but silence. The release of air is unable to find purchase with my vocal chords. My face blooms red, flushing with mortification, as I cast my eyes to the ground, eyebrows knitting together with renewed effort. "I-I-I—" I am folding paper cranes. "I-I a-a-a—" I am, I am, I am— "I—" The simple words ignore my silent pleading. I can feel my fingers curling into frustrated fists and gather my knees a little closer to my chest, so thankful I'm not standing. The steadiness of sitting is comforting. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out my nerves, and sigh. The exhalation chases out all my inner discontentment.

As the tightness within my chest begins to ebb, I look to the paper cranes scattered at my feet for help. The answer is in them. I know this thought is true and before I've even finished it, I am pulling a blank sheet of paper toward me, my teeth tugging the fountain pen's cap free once more, and writing with a penmanship as flawless as her face. What confidence I have returns to me with each lithe swoop of my hand. Where speaking was slow, writing comes like a lightning strike — a split second and it's finished. I hold up the paper so she can read it, the trembling in my hands all but imperceptible now, masked by a quiet breeze that sends a nervous wave shuddering across the lettering. It is a white flag, of surrender or peace, it doesn't matter, if only it can ward off that judgmental tone in her voice.

Hello, stranger.

Breaking into a shy grin, I realize the metal pen cap is still gripped awkwardly between my teeth. I leave it there; I've got other things to worry about now. Retracting the paper, I balance it awkwardly on my knees, still unwilling to let go of the comfort of curling into my own body, but intent on completing my silent explanation. Perhaps I can't tell her what I've been doing, but I can show her. Pressing folds into it, I tilt my head against their crookedness as if shifting my perspective will push theirs into alignment, but each one manages to fall into place, until my greeting has been reshaped into yet another, rather homely, crane. Tentatively, I hold it out to her, the small bird cupped within my palm. Fresh scars, ghosts of recent binding mistakes, crisscross around it, evidence of other things I don't know how to do quite right, but insisted on attempting anyway. There is pride in effort, even when there's not perfection.

"T-three hundr-r-red and eight-ty-t-three."

---

(OCC — This is my first thread with Attidarling too. No worries, hun. XD)

[Deleted]

I hold my breath, as this life starts to take its toll
I hide behind a smile as this perfect plan unfolds
But oh, God, I feel I've been lied to
Lost all faith in the things I have achieved

Obsidian brows hover somewhere close to your hairline as he stammers over what should be a simple answer (you're not surprised, though, you normally have the affect of leaving people speechless), his expression one of intense concentration even though the words never form themselves fully, hanging in the muggy air heavy with failed communication and unfulfilled promise. At the precise moment that you begin to lose patience, irritation sparking palpably behind stormcloud eyes, the boy seems to give up on verbal expression altogether, opting instead for the pen clutched in his hand to speak for him.

Hello, stranger.

You study the handwriting before processing the actual words - appearances are always, always far more valuable than any content lurking beneath them - noting the delicate swoop of the calligraphy that seems infinitely more graceful than your own legible but somewhat careless scrawl. Your letters are sharp, severe, sitting with the same stark angles as your music notes do when you compose, transcribing the flurry of dots and lines and staves that swirl around in the depths of your mind. The notes are always firm and austere although they are usually written in a hurry, pressed too-hard into the paper so much that you've been known to break pens before, sending dark blossoms of ink flowing over the pristine whiteness to ensnare your work in exquisite ruination.

When you finally take the time to really understand what those beautiful letters spell out it inspires more indignation than endearment, prompting narrowed eyes and a haughty scoff before the boy lowers the parchment into his lap, making complicated creases and folds that you honestly make no effort to follow. You've never had much focus for anything that isn't related to the wooden instrument that sits in its constant place of honor in your room, things like "patience" and "perseverance" nonexistent unless they are shrouded in rosin and Mozart concertos that send your head spinning in a way that is entirely different from the times when you lose yourself on the tide of pleasantly burning liquid that is your alternate form of escape.

By the time that your musing fades to mental silence he's produced a decidedly lackluster paper bird, presenting it to you with faltering speech and a hopeful grin that makes something inside of you writhe in revulsion. I can't stand people that smile. They're usually all too stupid to know that there isn't any reason to smile in this world.

Although body language clearly indicates that the boy is offering his creation to you, you make no move towards him or the pathetic little bird, instead taking in the botched folds and crooked creases with an unforgiving gaze and letting your mouth work its way into a sneer, voice absolutely dripping sardonic disdain. "How cute. And utterly useless."

With a delicate snort you finally move from the patch of ground you have been rooted to for the past few minutes, walking with careful steps over to the gargantuan pile of similarly misshapen cranes that occupies the ground next to this strange boy with his bright hair and scintillating smiles that make you want to break him for the sheer pleasure of it (you'll be the first to call yourself a sadist; it is a badge you wear proudly). An unevenly-folded wing is pinched between a perfectly manicured thumb and forefinger, a pale arm raising the parchment creature up to eye level so you can examine its inadequacies on a closer scale. "You would think that after folding so many of these things that you'd be able to make one that looks halfway decent."

Superiority has always been the love of your life, and it shows as you sink to your knees on the grassy carpet, unfolding the haphazard crane until it is a flat, albeit creased, sheet of paper again. Without any real knowledge of such trivialities as an actual art of folding paper into whimsical shapes, you set about figuring out how all the faint lines in the paper come together to form a would-be majestic bird in flight, improving upon his imperfect creases and matching angles up to make a flawless shape. Truth be told, you are so blinded by hubris that you almost miss the flash of that beautiful handwriting on one side of the paper, the ink burning words into your brain by chance.

I want to see everything.

[/color]

"Do you now?" you inquire in a tone that would be conversational if not for the acid glinting behind your eyes as you finish the reconstruction of one delicate wing. "Good luck with that. You won't see much when you're holed up in the woods making a flock of crappy paper birds."

Shinywhite teeth that have been pampered for the last twenty years except for the wear and tear afflicted by regular overdoses of alcohol glint dangerously in the sunlight, fledgeling fangs dripping with venom that yearns to be released to sully the mundane purity of the world. Maybe it means there's something wrong with you (you would be highly offended at the mere suggestion - it is an impossibility for perfection to be wrong)[/color] but you love to watch people squirm and writhe and break into thousands of irreparable fragments at the poisonous caress of your carefully-honed arsenal of words, and this boy is no exception. Perhaps you will never be a noble lioness at heart, but the sinuous serpent within has always possessed an innate love of playing with her food, and this boy with his ragtag parchment menagerie is no exception (Don't destroy him just yet, mistress of manipulation. He could provide the entertainment you left your ivory tower in search of).

"My name isn't 'stranger,' you know. It's Helena. Helena Scott," you note in a bored tone of voice, placing a final crease in the reconstructed animal. And now you wait for it, the slight widening of the eyes, the immediate ducking of the head as he realizes her family owns half the district[/color], the respect and envy and adulation that always sends you on such an intense power high that sometimes you feel your as if feet almost leave the ground. But you are a champion of hiding all forms of expression, so he doesn't notice the anticipation of someone new to worship you that bubbles through your veins as you pick up the finished crane, holding it up for his scrutiny. It now exudes perfection in every precise fold and immaculate point, making all of its brethren pale in comparison when you get up and set it on the very top of a pile, a majestic princess shedding the light of her glory on the unwashed masses.

"I've never made one of those before. It's rather dull. How on earth do you find entertainment in that?"

You have begun your corrosion, subtle jabs and whisper-soft demoralization that will pass below his notice before he knows what you're doing, and you know that in a short amount of time you will have robbed yet another victim of their happiness without the even realizing that they had any to steal in the first place.[/color][/blockquote][/size][/justify]

[L△LIA]

( A T T I C U S J E R I C H O J A C Q U E S )




Less than forget
But more than begun
These adventures in solitude never done
To the names of our wounds
We send the same blood back from the wars

Beginnings have always been the most difficult for you. It's the first words that consistently trip you up, your uncertainty slipping into each syllable and misplacing all the pauses. Knowing what to say has never been your strong suit, but as with cards, you've dutifully tried your hand at any combination that seems promising. Your dogged determination doesn't seem to pay off too often, but that's never stopped you from putting in twice as much effort the next go-around and it's certainly not going to stop you now.

"How cute." Despite the girl's catty undertone, the snide compliment catches you so off-guard that your heart actually skips a beat in a moment of misguided euphoria. It's rare that you cross paths with so much as the most offhand of praise and although you know because she would never, never ever, never ever ever mean it... that it's not a real accolade ...but then again, you don't seem to know half the things you think you do you can't help being appreciative of her dismissive words. There's a quiet desperation within you that's willing to not only accept her disingenuous remark, but that mentally folds it into a paper crane of its own and tucks it away for safekeeping. Three hundred and eighty-four. Your imagination even goes so far as to draw an itsy-bitsy smile onto its face, don't forget the dimples, but since you can't seem to do anything perfectly, even in your mind, it ends up crooked. Even if you missed all the other hints, this should have tipped you off to her follow-up words; yet, you can feel your lips pursing in agitated response, almost as if tensing from betrayal. "—and utterly useless. You would think that after folding so many of these things that you'd be able to make one that looks halfway decent."

Of course she doesn't understand and it's probably for the best. Loneliness manifested as a flock of woefully lackluster paper cranes is perhaps the last secret of yours this wicked girl needs to discover. Perhaps if everything speaking came as easily to you as it does to others, then you could find a less conspicuous coping tactic for your forlorn little soul. However, talking to yourself is often as useless as your failed attempts to converse with others and writing your fragile thoughts into such kind friends as these birds has always felt much more natural and therapeutic. And they are halfway decent, you insist to yourself, more than that even. You're not wrong for once. They are the best of everything you have to offer, mute representatives of your unspoken pride and the eggshell-delicate army you protect yourself with.

This is why you absolutely bristle when she disdainfully ignores your offering and takes one of your personal guards hostage between her spindly fingers, not because of her scathing criticisms — you've long grown used to being inadequate. She might as well have snatched your heart directly from your chest for all the difference it would make now, her perfectly groomed nails feeling as if they're viciously clawing their way past the feeble armor of your ribcage as she slowly unfolds your creation. Effervescent smile transformed into a scowl, you feel your lips pulling back to bare your teeth with a territorial instinct you didn't know you possessed until now. Tension ripples through your entire body as you release the grip that's held you in an upright fetal position since she appeared and shift towards her into a predatory crouch, both of your gazes so attentively trained on her hands that neither of you seems to notice that you're a split-second from lunging at her.

The only thing that saves you her no, definitely you are her next words as she reads the impossible wish that had been enshrined within your clumsy effort in origami: I want to see everything. "Do you now?" Once again, you are lulled into a false sense of amity as you cast your eyes over the creased calligraphy, despite knowing — again, how many other things have you thought you'd known and been wrong about, so maybe — that no, she can't possibly be genuinely curious about me. Yet, you want to answer her as if she were, tell her about all the faraway places you want to see, maybe— because you cling to whatever hope for companionship you cross paths with —maybe ask if she wants to climb the fence with you and go find them. This insistent voice in the back of your mind keeps whispering how real people must be better than paper cranes, even when they say terrible things. At least they're saying something to you. But she—

You suck in an awestruck breath as you realize she's putting your crane back together, wings practically fluttering back to life against her touch. Every fiber of your being flashes with a foreign emotion that you are helpless to identify. Mouth dry and palms damp with sweat, you take in another awkward gulp of oxygen, throat clenching uncomfortably as you realize that your body seems to have momentarily forgotten how to function on its own. All evidence of your previous animosity disappears as quickly as it came, but you don't withdraw into the defensive curl of your arms. Retreating is somehow the last thing you want to do right now. Instead you lean in a little closer, your jaw hanging slack as you study her refined movements that are so concerned with rebuilding the home you created for one of your most earnest aspirations. You are so immersed in your observations that you almost miss her follow-up comment — "Good luck with that. You won't see much when you're holed up in the woods making a flock of crappy paper birds." — but you do hear it, although it certainly doesn't inflict the intended reaction. Oh, but I am. Don't you see? I'm witnessing things that are so much more unfathomable than oceans or canyons.

"My name isn't 'stranger,' you know. It's Helena. Helena Scott," she chides while completing the final crease, preening each perfected fold into its ultimate position and raising the reborn bird up as if presenting the messiah of paper cranes. Her name holds a spark of recognition, but a lifetime of social isolation and your current distraction prevents you from sorting out precisely why. Despite their reclusive tendencies, you're certain that your parents must know hers, much the same way all of high society simply must know Olivia and Dimitri Jacques. You are no master of deduction, but clairvoyance isn't required to see that her blood is all but made of liquid gold — she is undoubtedly the daughter of the kind of wealth that strikes fear and reverence into the average district denizen. Prestige is inherent in her posture, the kind of familiar, dignified poise that you lack and have always envied your younger brother for inheriting. Still, you can't help feeling an odd twinge of disappointment; money has always been one of the few things that disinterests you.

So instead of fretting over exactly which member of the elite beau monde just reconstructed your heavy-handed origami into something as refined as the society she hails from, you are fixated on the tiny paper bird. Every ounce of your attention is devoted to following its flight path as she perches it atop the highest peak of the mountain range formed by its comrades. It is then that you are truly able to see the contrast — the awkward pinions of your own handiwork jutting out around it, beaks snared in the gaps between folds, and stubby necks prompting them to shy away from the elegant newcomer.

She is speaking again, but the words don't quite register with you this time. And how strange it feels to suddenly be deaf to the rarity of words intended for you. "I've never made one of those before. It's rather dull. How on earth do you find entertainment in that?" You are preoccupied by the hesitance within your own hands as you reach out and lift the avian anomaly of perfection from the flock, cradling it in cupped palms as you bring it so close to your face that its nose brushes against the tip of your own. Head tilting absently as you study the angular planes of its anatomy, the improvement is undeniable. Yet, while each of her creases are in flawless alignment, they cannot entirely erase the paper's memory of your own, every pale cicatrix reminding you of the faint scars stretching across the surface of your own hands.

These thoughts trigger the memory of the last crane you held and you realize it's missing from your grasp, lost in your earlier shift of ire. Tearing your attention away for a brief moment, you spy it laying on the ground near your left foot and hastily retrieve it. Nestled next to one another, the two cranes form a peculiar pair. You decide that although they are opposites, they are unexpectedly complementary. The perfection of one speaks to the potential of the other, while its earnest flaws strike you with a sense of humanity and reminds you how its companion possesses such traits as well, regardless of how well hidden they may be. Feeling an abrupt urge to name them, how can I not, when the monikers are so apt, you move to sit cross-legged as you reach for your fountain pen once more. In the impeccably arcing helices of your script, you painstakingly write Helena beneath the wing of the reassembled bird and Atti in the same place on its partner.

Panic beats its wild fists against the part of your chest where your heart lives as you become aware of your own movements. Having stashed the pen in your pocket and pulled yourself up from the ground, you cross the barrier of cranes to sit at her side, leaving the safe haven that had protectively encircled you before. Despite your alarmed palpitations, you feel downright courageous and, as you take her hand — I insist — and firmly press the Atti crane into it, you wonder if perhaps you're not a little drunk on the exhilaration of this newfound bravery. "H-h—" Still, it spurs you through the difficulty of speaking, coaxing actual words past the tripwires of your vocal cords, "H-h-hello, Mi-miss Helena." The triumph of saying her name without stuttering only bolsters your confidence and suddenly you're convinced you possess moxie. "I-I'm At-atti-Atticus J—" Jacques—

No.

Your frantic pulse is absolutely shrieking frustrated warnings at you now and this time you actually listen: don't tell her that. The same spark of recognition you felt from her name will inevitably be duplicated within her mind over yours, but while hers was probably meant to inspire awe, yours is steeped in shame. While your family is renowned for their genius and the extensive wealth they've reaped from it, you are the black sheep. Ownership of the Jacques title may prompt respect and more than a little curiosity, but that fame turns to infamy in conjunction with Atticus. You are the son who fell short of everyone's expectations, inheriting none of your parents brilliance or composure — such trait's were passed along only to your brother. Although you have come to fragile terms with your shortcomings, you still despise the expression of realization that crosses other people's faces at the mention of your name: Oh, you're that Jacques. How disappointing.

Treading carefully, your stutter ironically camouflages your blunder as you continue, "—j-just call m-m-me Atti, if you-you'd li-like." You don't think she will; she doesn't seem to like many things, particularly about you, but you appreciate her blunt honestly. It's better than the false sympathy you've received before. People tolerate you, because society says they must, so you like her defiance, even if she is unaware of it. You are each rebelling against social expectations in your own way, we have that much in common. This thought is enough to summon the smile back to your face as you meet her eyes for the first time since your fascination with the Helena crane that you still hold possessively within your hands. "I-I'm pl-pleased to m-make your acqu-qu-quaintance." And you are.

The corners of your lips are pulled so wide that they bury themselves in the creases of your cheeks — you are absolutely beaming: eyes shut, head thrown back, shoulders curling forward — and have to bite your lip to hold in a bout of spontaneous laughter. You wonder if she's aware that this grin was ignited by her. You're doubtful; she doesn't seem like she's very good at making people smile, you are simply a rare bird. Maybe this is something you can help her improve on. Before you can stop to consider the repercussions, you have released the crane you've been clutching into your lap, impulsively reaching out to steady your fingertips along the edge of her jaw as your thumbs catch onto the corners of her mouth — "You would be even prettier if you smiled." — and gently nudge them upward. You are not thinking, your actions crossing lines you normally wouldn't dare to so much as look at. However, due to this lack of awareness, you forget to be nervous which you should be and your words flow without restraints. "Like this." That's when the horror of what you've just done sinks in, eyes widening and mouth dropping open in shock as you stop dead in your tracks like a rabbit caught in the cross-hairs. You blame it on the moxie.

---

(OOC — I've never tried this 2nd person business before, but Atti thought it sounded fun and of course Atti must try everything. Sorry if it's awful. D:)

[Deleted]

One final fight for this tonight
With knives and pens we made our plight
Lay your heart down, the end's in sight
Conscience begs for you to do what's right

All your life, you've always been a straight shooter. Everything is so much simpler when it's short, (not so)

sweet, and to the point, and even though you've been known to delight in reducing the lives of others into convoluted messes, you crave that simplicity in your own world, where nothing is ever easy. At-Atti-Atticus is anything but simple with his stumbling words and unexplainable smiles and steadfast amiability even in the face of your impending wrath, and you've begun to strongly suspect that you just might hate him for displaying the complexity that will delay his would-be swift destruction (your curiosity will be your undoing one day, virtuoso, Mama always said to leave things as they were and you never seemed to listen)

[/color].

His hands are warm and distinctive as they press the imperfect creation into the cool flawlessness of your palm, scars with a million untold stories behind them brushing along your own unmarred flesh. The paper, too, exudes heat into your always-frozen skin (more than one person has made the suggestion that you're a cold-blooded serpent with a pretty face)[/color], still clinging to the loving ministrations that made it what it is. It must not know yet that its creator has just sacrificed it to a ruthless she-devil whose concept of love is nonexistent. Tempestuous orbs of gray half-malice take in the warped lines of the bird's structure, but you find to your dismay that you can't bring yourself to launch into another harshly judgmental tangent about all of its flaws. Each crooked fold and asymmetrical angle seems to speak to you now as the heat gradually leeches out of the parchment and bakes its way into the pale expanse of your flesh. And as you curiously lift up a lopsided wing to examine the unexpected, delicate beauty of the signature stashed beneath the plethora of misfit folds, you can hear that fractured optimism talking to you in his voice, stammering that p-per-perfect things a-aren't a-al-always the m-most beautiful. M-maybe they're on t-to something wh-when they s-say it's what's i-in-inside that c-counts.

While it is an undisputed fact that you want nothing more than to crush his dreams and let his sorrow make pretty little stains all over the already sullied canvas of your warped, twisted little soul, but damn it all to hell, you can't. It's been so long since you've been intrigued by something, and he, even though it is in the most awful, maddening, irritating way possible, has drawn your attention like and ill-fated moth to a candle flame (you're still not sure who's the moth - you or him - but you can tell that at least one of you will emerge from this encounter as a charred hull)[/color]. But before you can finish your rumination on the subject he is close, too close, delicate digits pressed abruptly against your face and twisting your features into a mockery of a grin. The motion is so unpracticed that you imagine you can almost hear your facial muscles scrambling in confusion after years of nothing but scowls and acidic sneers. "You would be even prettier if you smiled. Like this."

You positively leap back, carmine lips quickly escaping his manipulation, snarling up over the pristine sticky-brightness of your teeth and knitting their way into an expression that is so innately terrifying that you wouldn't be surprised if he were to turn on his heel and run (better men than him have fled from your wrath on more than one occasion - Ander's a goddamned Victor and the last time you made this face at him he retreated to the basement and refused to resurface for hours)[/color], leaving his lackluster paper army behind in hopes that they might be enough to protect their master with their wobbly constructions and pipe dreams written in beautiful strokes beneath flightless wings.

"Hands off, Birdboy."

The corners of your mouth and the planes of your jawline burn where his fingerprints sear into the chilled skin. You can't remember the last time someone besides Alec or Adrian actually touched you, not to mention with so much presumption as to lay a finger on the prized icon that is your face (your namesake once launched a thousand ships with hers and you like to think that you could at least do that well, if not better)[/color]. You are livid, icy ferocity biting through your veins like tiny blades (it is not flaming fury because you are always, always cold)[/color] and you don't even know why, other than the obvious fact that he has overstepped his bounds by a mile in assuming that he's allowed to do anything other than sit back and bask in your glory. There are some who would say that the glacial walls you throw up in the face of anyone who tries to get close to you are a defense mechanism, but you will tell them through a cutting sneer without missing a beat that they are wrong. You need no defenses because there are none who could even hope to stand against you in the face of such awe-inspiring perfection (at least that's what you tell yourself, and you can lie to yourself almost as well as you can lie to the rest of them).[/color]

But really, you have reverted into into this rattlesnake state of bared teeth and tremulous warnings because he has actually managed to shock you (a worthy adversary - taking him down will be highly gratifying)[/color] with his blatant disregard for your comfort zone status, dignity, and personal space. But to come at him with hackles raised and the full force of your malice raining down on him will only indicate that he is a threat, and you refuse to let him think anything other than that he is an insignificant afterthought, skating along barely beneath your notice with his bumbling mannerisms and sunshine smiles that turn your stomach with their irreproachable sincerity. You deflate, feral snarl diminishing to your typical disenchanted scowl and the boundless rage flaming behind the gray pools of your eyes dialing back to a mere spark of your true irritation.

"You don't just grab people's faces. They don't take kindly to it," You snap, arms crossing over your chest and stormy orbs narrowing to critical slits. He could never guess how uncomfortable and out of your element you feel, the ghosts of his fingertips still tingling along those spots on your face (you would say that you feel violated but it's the fact that you don't that is ultimately more disturbing).[/color] You do not come from a place where intimacy is the norm. You were not hugged as a child, your tears were not wiped away for you - most certainly not, you were chided for weakness at the first indication that you might cry - careful caresses of the hair and brushes of lips along cheeks that you saw the other mothers bestow on their children were not given to you. You are a Scott and therefore above all of that petty nonsense, things like touch and love and affection such foreign concepts that the words feel rusty on your tongue even though you are only thinking them.

Eventually you calm yourself to the point that you can resume your former position, perched delicately a few feet away from him, close enough to let him gaze upon your exquisiteness but far enough away that his mediocrity doesn't taint the carefully-constructed perfection that is all you have in this lonely little world. You open your mouth to say something but a sudden recollection stops you before the words bloom over your parted lips, a memory that smells like old paper and feels like the cold winter winds brushing against the panes of the big bay window in the library. Years later you can still remember the way you curled up in the window seat and buried yourself in the ancient adventures, lost worlds inked into crumbling pages that were formed before the foundations of Panem, let alone your home District, were ever laid. Your father had stashed them on the highest shelves and forbidden any of you from exploring (We shouldn't even have these, but they're valuable, so I'm keeping them. You are not to touch, understand?), so naturally you had climbed up on stacked chairs the second his back was turned and seized the forbidden fruit between your tiny hands, poring over the forgotten words until your head spun with the dizzying knowledge that had until then been so carefully concealed from you. Besides, it gave you a precocious edge, knowing the classics that were off limits to the rest of the unwashed masses, and you have never passed up an opportunity to act like show that you know it all.

"So, Atticus, Hm? Like from To Kill A Mockingbird, right? Although you seem decidedly less eloquent than your namesake."[/justify][/color][/blockquote][/size]

[L△LIA]

( A T T I C U S J E R I C H O J A C Q U E S )




Dig deep but don't dig too deep
When it's late you'll see the hole is empty and oh so deadly
They want me raw and smooth like glass
They want it fast but they don't want flaws
Can you cut, I can cut, 'cause I'm a rough gem

You have read every book you were ever able to lay your hands on and although you don't remember most of them half as well as you'd like (no matter how you try and try and try — you're always trying — to summon them back to your thoughts), one of them comes to you now, in your most dire moment of need. At the time, you laughed about it, unable to understand the backwards logic, but back then your heart wasn't palpitating with terror over the situation you'd stumbled into. How your thumbs managed to sneak into the crooks of her lips as you cradle her face in your hands, you can't quite recall, but you know that you are trespassing; you lack many things, but, in this moment at least, awareness is not one of them.

Following an instinct stolen from the pages of that book, you freeze — perfectly still — before dropping to the ground, limp and certainly in no position to be overly particular about how you land. It's moments like this that remind you the most about who you are and why a very predictable expression seems to cross people's faces at the mention of the name Atticus Jacques. You are something like the opposite of a secret and if you were less honest about yourself, you could use that as an excuse for why you've never been any good at managing your position in high society. However, your open approach to life is not to blame for your gracelessness and you refuse to condemn one of your few respectable attributes to the words of such a cheap alibi. No, your inability to fake your way through emotional turmoil the same way the rest of District Seven's upper class does, flawless faces — like Helena Scott's — who turn smiles and frowns into arched eyebrows or blank stares, is not something you've ever been willing to lay out as a sacrifice to society. So perhaps the real reason you can't seem to change your bumbling ways is because you are unwilling to.

Drawing in a deep (yet utterly panicked) breath, you hold the air in your lungs with a kind of stubbornness that insists it will hide this last gasp of oxygen away in your very soul, just to be sure that it stays safe and sound. You can't take your actions back any more than she can take your misguided persistence from you. Punishment is one thing — and, oh, you can take that well enough — but if there is anything that Helena's impeccable mask of emotional control doesn't bother hiding, it's her mercilessness and you have no faith in your lack of ability to match that.

In this moment of blasphemy, you have learned something new: Playing dead is an art form. It should go without saying that, as with most other forms of art, this is not your strongest skill in life. You can't seem to stop the soft twitching of your eyes, because although the lids are pulled down as tightly as shutters in a storm, you want so desperately to know what is happening on the other side of this veil of darkness you have created for yourself. Is her face still so concerned with its delicately carved stone-lies when no one is watching or are you missing a revelation? You will never know. If a secret echo of that smile you wanted to move her with has taken up a miracle hold on her lips, it is not for you to see, but you are certain that cannot possibly be what you are missing. No, it's not that at all. Rather, you are desperately curious to witness a clue as to why she isn't leaving. In this simple truth, there is something to be found, but, oh, you are too preoccupied to see.

Fingers hooked into the pale strands of your hair, there are hands, wrists, and forearms wrapped protectively around your head. From instinct or foresight, it is difficult to say. Curled into yourself, your knees almost touch your forehead, tapping softly against the tip of your nose instead with each palpitation of should-be regret that rings through your pulse. However, the real secret here is that this seems to feel an awful lot more like victory than defeat, no matter how much your current position looks like surrender.

A stuttering rush of memory pricks at your ears, reminding you that she spoke while you were caught in the stillness of shock, but her words are a vague slur of sound in your mind and you cannot work them out. Suddenly you can't help but be glad for the arm that obscures your face, hiding the tiniest of smiles that threatens to betray your current repentance at the thought that the stammering recollection of her voice sounds as uncertain in your reminiscence as yours does when you speak. Where the blurring of a memory can smooth your flaws out, it is the opposite for her, the smallest flashes of hesitation magnified into an importance that becomes the only thing that really stays with you.

Insults and reprimands become faded wraiths in the foggy synapses of your mind, lost fragments of audio information that have gone flitting away far more quickly than you can follow. It's only the sound of your name passing across her lips that tugs you back into a state of mind capable of anything like attention. Only, suddenly (with a familiar combination of words — To Kill A Mockingjay — that you've carefully traced with your fingertips before, wondering again and again what they might have to do with your fragile soul) your name isn't about you. Now your name is about something much more interesting than you, it's about a single fragment of paper you once paid half a fortune for to a wandering acquaintance of your grandfather's. Most people would think a single, torn and dirty, page from a book wouldn't be worth much of anything, especially considering the risk involved, but the moment you saw your name written into a page of history, you'd have given anything for it.

With so many of the words rubbed out or obscured by the grime of age, there was hardly a coherent sentence to be found. Yet, you never felt swindled. You worked out the title from the upper corner of the page and since then have persistently asked every purveyor of pre-Panem publications you come into contact with if they might have a lead on another piece to this puzzle. There's just one question you have and you're willing to take any answer to it: "A-at-atti—" Voice rasping slightly, it comes out as a broken whisper. You don't seem quite willing to give up your last ditch effort to play dead, masking your words with a covert tone that manages to laughably defeat its own purpose, seeing as how your question is aimed at your foe, but your curiosity is undefeatable and perhaps that will be enough to save you. "Atticus Fin-fin-fin-finch?"