where they once stood {barnabas and asa}

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

B A R N A B A S   S T R O U D

Every bite Barnabas took tasted of corpses. Hunger forcing him to pick at the luxurious pastries and rich liquids instead of his own will. Every day was like that now. If he wanted to survive, he had to appear strong. Such was hard, when every other tribute terrified him. The weapons were too heavy, taking all of his strength to swing them only to have his arms ache the next morning. He had found almost nothing he excelled at, save for the first aid station. Even that would help him little in the arena if he wasn’t able to fend off his attackers. He had taken to locking himself in the bathroom at night, pulling his knees to his chest and crying. Revealing his weakness where the Capitol’s cameras dare not venture.

His eyes still bore a swollen red tint this morning, the food placed in front of him less than appetizing. His hand shook as he brought the scrambled eggs to his mouth, trying to keep his eyes fixed firmly upon the plate in front of him, lest they meet the eyes of a bloodthirsty career or a desperate lower district. Making himself as small as possible, Barnabas decided, was his best chance at survival. If no one noticed him, no one would target him. It was as though he was lost, a plankton floundering in an ocean filled with predators. The boy had never felt so alone.

Yet his eyes wandered about the long table, taking in the scenery that was so much different District Seven’s calm forests. The sleepy life he had once lived was gone forever and this once again brought pinpricks of tears to his eyes. You’re weak. Barnabas thought nothing of the boy who did not eat the first few times his eyes found him. He was waiting for someone, he was too busy talking; his mind created endless excuses. Until it didn’t. The frail stature of the boy, as though bent near breaking, reminded Barnabas of how he felt. However hopeless and alone he allowed himself to feel, sitting by while another suffered sickened him.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Leaving his plate unattended, he took a seat next to the boy. Even that movement had taken a great amount of effort, feeling as though he’d run a mile his lips formed around words that would not leave him. ”You…” the word was little more than a whisper, his voice hoarse after such a long silence. Now closer to the boy, he could make out his features. Having seen them himself, upon the Capitol’s television. Asa Reau, District Two tribute, District Two career. Panic rose in his throat, tasting something like bile as he stared at Asa. He could already feel the boy’s slender fingers wrapping around his throat, reprimanding him for even daring to speak. but he needed help. there was a tugging, deep within his gut – a medic’s intuition as Grandma Stroud had called it.

”You really need to keep your strength up.” he managed, eyeing the boy’s near untouched meal. ”I know being here sucks – or, well, I don’t know if it does for you,” Barnabas rambled on, pace quickening with each syllable ”but it’s just important.”

{and i will try to
f i x  y o u;

[gamemaker kelsier]

[presto][/presto]

I'm good at this. Pretending. I know how to play with the food on my plate and take a couple of bites, make it look like I'm eating it. I know how to lift the fork up to my lips and then to lower it, letting the food fall back to the plate. It's all a show, one I'm good at. I don't have to perform it here, there are no parents watching to make sure I'm well fed. I guess they don't want us dropping from starvation before the games. Our escort seems very interested in what I'm eating, too interested. I smile, lips curling back bright and big as I drop a piece of meat into the napkin on my lap. I raise a glass, toasting them, appearing to be every bit the comfortable career that I'm meant to be, literally dying on the inside.

I need a cigarette badly. There aren't many to be found here. I asked an Avox for a pack and she brought me two. I've got one left but I'm trying to ration it. I know I'm going to want one before I enter the arena.

Eating is like a game. You try to figure out the smallest amount you can eat before someone asks if you're feeling alright. Once that happens, you can take the option they've given you to excuse yourself, or you can smile and eat another bite. You have the option of telling them to buzz off too but I can't do that, I'm not really the type. If someone confronts me I'm more the type to want to curl up into a ball and roll away. It's the reason I don't make a good career, I'm terrible at confrontation.

Kids eat up and down the long table, some of them smiling, laughing as if they aren't planning on murdering each other the first chance they get. I'm used to being a wallflower, the one unnoticed in any situation. My career status gives me a certain amount of popularity however. I am surrounded by people, all interested in what I have to say but I have nothing to say at all, I never do. I'm speechless as always. I smile at their jokes so that they'll consider killing me last. I sit here and pretend to eat because if I don't, my survival rate goes down. I can't die first. My father will hate me more than he does.

I have to pretend, I always have to pretend.

Weakness sits on my tongue, heavy and forlorn and the room spins. I shouldn't be drinking the glass of wine they have given us with the welcome dinner, there are far too many calories and my stomach is far too empty but the way the room is tilting is nearly pleasant. It makes this far more bearable. I can't stop sipping the wine an the Avox that stands behind me won't stop filling it. I'm going to be sick soon. The air is getting too warm, it's too crowded here, too many people calling my name, trying to talk to me, this doesn't happen often. I don't like crowds very much, they make me feel sick, like I can't breath at all, I need air or some water, or to just get out of here. All three.

I lean back in my chair, a slender hand reaching up to rest against my eyes, my breath quickening as I try to catch up with myself. Hunger claws at me and now it doesn't matter how much I weigh or how much muscle I don't gain. In a week I will be dead and I won't care anymore. I want to eat but the thought of it makes me sick. I can't, I've gone so long being afraid of food that I just can't. It's vicious.

”You really need to keep your strength up.”

The voice comes to the side and above. I lift my fingers away from my eyes, a question rising in them, wondering who this boy is who has stood himself beside my chair. It's that boy, Barnabas. I noticed him. I noticed all of the boys, but I'm a sucker for cute boys, and there's a quality to the way he walks that is sweet. I watched him walk up to the stage and accept. I watched all of them do it. I wanted to see whom I would be killed by.

Whatever he is, he's an escape.

I reach out, hand grabbing loosely at his shirt. "....p-p-please," I croak, trying to get the words out past my dry mouth, "Can we get out of here, I'm going to be sick."

you a r e so
b r a v e and q u i e t
I forget
y o u are
s u f f e r i n g

[presto][/presto]

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

B A R N A B A S   S T R O U D

"....p-p-please," His voice stung Barnabas, the desperation laced within his words something the boy had never heard. He had to act now, and act quickly. Fingers moving of their own accord they lifted his hand, wrapping themselves around his wrist and feeling for the soft pounding that was his heart. It was slowed, not quite faint but not as strong as it should have been. Without a word, he drew the boy’s arm around his shoulder, standing him up and allowing him a crutch to lean on.

"It's alright." he kept his voice soft, trying not to remind himself that Asa was a career, one who would most likely wish to kill him once they stepped foot into the arena. This was who his parents wanted him to be, this is who he would be. He would be dead within the week's end, but this boy had a chance. Asa had trained for this, Asa could be strong. Just as his fear had melted away when comforting Grandma Stroud, he felt it falling off his shoulders like a heavy coat. It was no longer his own mortality he was faced with, but that of a fresh faced boy who needed him. That felt good. "If you have to be sick, so be it." he chuckled, as forced as it was just knowing that his body was still capable of laughter comforted him, "Trust me, it's not the first time I've had to clean up a mess."

Hadn't he cleaned his mother's pillowcase of blood, washed out every trace so he could keep a reminder of the woman he'd lost? He'd cleaned up new life as well, balled fists and faces red with ear splitting cries. There was no mess he feared, there was no mess he hadn't faced. At least Barnabas found comfort in telling himself that. The boy had found that if he told a lie enough times, even he could be fooled into believing it.

You’ll be okay, Barnabas. ”Just come with me, okay?”

Asa was not a heavy burden to carry. Barnabas was able to stagger towards the doors, bathing the both of them in the little sunlight they were allowed. Cameras as well as their horrid Capitol technology assured that no foolish tributes would attempt to escape their luxurious prison. It made him want to be sick; though he didn’t dare, given the ailing boy leaning upon his shoulder. ”Sit.” he ordered, deciding to let the Career choose his next actions. As much as he wanted to help, Barnabas was not keen on getting beaten before even setting foot into the arena. Would that be some sort of record, he wondered.

Ms. Carmichael’s words had haunted him the entire train ride and every night he attempted to sleep. (It had become an elusive pleasure ever since arriving in this deathtrap masked by beauty.) Knowing that someone believed in him was excruciating. He knew the hard-headed woman’s words were meant to motivate the boy, to bring him home, but it only managed to throw one more stone upon the world that rested on strained shoulders. Barnabas was damn near collapsing already. The child’s name would not leave him, and Barnabas doubted it would until his dying breath. He would not only be disappointing Alexander’s parent, but leaving the baby boy an orphan.

Julie Carmichael only had two months to live.

The growth upon her brain had only been increasing in volume, his grandmother unable to do anything but ease her pain. It had already begun to impede her memory and trigger seizures by the time she had conceived Alexander. ”I’ve always wanted a child, I’ll be damned if this thing will ruin it!” Julie had long since come to terms with her own death by the time Grandma Stroud sent Barnabas to live with her. Pregnancy was probably the most painful thing the woman would ever experience, and yet she endured, she survived.

”What happened?” Barnabas’ voice was stronger, as it was no longer only his own. He couldn’t save the woman or the child, but he could save Asa Reau. And he would.

{and i will try to
f i x  y o u;

[gamemaker kelsier]

[presto][/presto]

Bile rises in my throat; I gag, slapping a hand to my mouth to stop anything from coming out. It won't look good if I throw up in front of everyone here. The lights and doors are spinning round and around, blinding me. I swallow the acid down before it can come out but it makes me feel sick, like I'm fourteen years old again and Heracles is trying his poisons out on me. I'd get sick a lot then, spending nights wrapped around the toilet, shivering despite the heat. There was a night where the room spun so badly that I remember an oxygen mask and a hospital bed, lights flashing above me as someone held my hand, telling me to just hold on. They were going to make me better and then they'd get me home, safe and sound. The testing stopped after that even though no one had told Heracles off after that. My district operates on the ideology that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

I feel a hand wrap around my wrist, pulling me forwards and up. I stumble into a body, the boy's I think. My eyes are muffled, my hearing blurred. The laughter of my fellow tributes burrows it's way into my skull, slipping down into my ribcage. I laugh weakly too, remembering my duty. I have to fit in so that they don't kill me, so that they think me strong and terrifying too. My arm is around the shoulder of the boy and despite my taller stature I can barely support myself. My legs have almost given out. They're tired, like me. We're so tired. I am not used to this much interaction, this much stress.

I'm used to being alone, it's what I like best, when it's quiet. It's too much, this is too much.

His hair smells like the mornings when frost has tipped the grass and the air is crisp with it. Autumn mornings. He's an Autumn morning. His hands are tough, callused. Not like mine, not like the calluses on mine. Mine are rough from holding the bow and the arrows that accompany it. Mine are rough from clenching an ink pen so tightly that it's left me ragged. His are different callused.

He says things that I don't quite hear, I dip my head so that I don't have to look at anyone anymore, so that they don't see how weak I am. they can't know how truly weak I am, how useless I am. They have to think I'm strong so my father will be proud.

The way he holds me stretches the scar that crosses my back, that makes it's way over my shoulder like the arm of a lover. A gift from my brother. He tried to cut me open once. I wondered why my mother never took me away after that, why she left me alone with my father and brother. Why she didn't love me enough. Then I remember why. I always remember why. The scar itches, the skin puckered and stretched around the cavernous ridges of it. It brings a grimace to my lips, I bare my teeth to the carpet that we pass over. It does not offer me one in return.

Then we are past the carpet and the doors out to the balcony are swinging open and the wind is blasting me in the face, air that is fresh, untested by many mouths before me forces it's way into my lungs. I cough, stumbling forwards as Barnabas releases me, sucking in huge mouthfuls of air as if it will heal me. My hand finds the barrier keeping me from tumbling over the edge onto the cement pavement far below and I clutch it like it's the only thing keeping me afloat.

I stay there awhile, my knuckles going white from holding onto the railing so hard. For a moment I think that I really am going to be sick but it doesn't come. All that's in there is wine and a few meager mouthfuls of food. There's barely anything left to give.

the sun sets in front of us, it is a ball of angry red furry slowly crashing down on the buildings that seem to spiral up and up into the heavens. They glint violently in the light, refracting the rays onto the buildings across and beside them. It is a strange, foreign beauty. District Two does not have buildings so tall. It is unheard of. Buildings like these are reserved for the gods.

"Idon'twanttobehereeither," I say, voice speeding up the way that it does when I'm feeling shy. I mumble too much my father says. I'm too quiet for a career, I should be proud and stand tall. I shut my eyes and press my forehead against the cool surface of the railing. It's refreshing in comparison to my skin. I stay there for a moment, bent and withered like a man at the end of his life. I am nearing the end of mine. I suppose it is an appropriate simile.

"....I..." I try, but my lips struggle against the words, knowing that they aren't very manly, not very good for a career to say. My mouth is dry again, the way it gets when I have to talk to strangers. There have been far too many strangers today, far too many new faces, far too much noise. "...I-I...I just, I don't, I don'tlikecrowdsverymuch."

I turn my head slightly, still keeping it against the railing but making it so that I can face him. I offer him a watery smile, trying to remain as calm as I can but it's difficult, the world is being stubborn, continuing to swim angrily. "Th....anks," I mumble, truly grateful. the fresh air is already making me feel better and I couldn't have even left my chair without him. "Barnabas? Right?"

you a r e so
b r a v e and q u i e t
I forget
y o u are
s u f f e r i n g

[presto][/presto]

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

B A R N A B A S   S T R O U D

Barnabas’ heart was already near breaking by the time the Career managed a thank you. He’s just like me. Once again tears pooled at the corners of the boy’s eyes, and on a whim he cupped Asa’s hand between his own. Guilt, both at assuming the boy a soulless murderer and inability to stop his pain, fuelling his actions. ”Barnabas? Right?” He stiffened, only managing a curt nod in response. He had always assumed himself something insignificant, the name skipped in a crowd of thousands. No one would – no one should have – cared about the boy from Seven. It wasn’t as though he’d get very far. Perhaps the first canon to ring over the arena would be his. Barnabas long since decided he would have to come to terms with this, somehow.

He hadn’t even talked to another child before the age of twelve, parent’s insisting they would ruin his innocence with foul words and harsh demeanors. Instead he would sit with his parents, awestruck as they told him tales of the grand outside. Of multicolored birds with wingspans stretching across the whole of District Seven, a President who cared for his people, and loved them unconditionally. Yet they refused to let him see proof of the tales they told. At the time, a younger Barnabas had accepted it, assuming everything his parents did was for the best as they could do no wrong. Now watching the sun set below the balcony Barnabas knew every word they spoke was a lie. In their desperate attempts to help him they only hurt the boy all the more.

Humiliation had been his first experience in the outside world. Excelling at both writing and reading as a child he could so little else. His parent’s homeschooling had been pointless, doing little more than allowing him to speak. The teachers treated him without mercy, no matter how low he sunk into the brittle plastic chairs his name would be the first called. By the end of his first school year he despised the sound of it. A smile was still plastered onto his face, however, every time he entered his home. Unable to tell his parents how he truly felt, for fear of disappointing them. His mother would cry and his father would lock himself in a room, that’s what happened when the teacher’s told the Strouds their son would have to repeat the year.

And the boy was left alone for the rest of the evening.

Barnabas would still tell whoever listened how wonderful his family was, how well his parents treated him. They’d protect him with their life, he’d brag, puffing out his chest and smiling from ear to ear. It was the only thing the boy had a reason to be proud of, since he so often disappointed them. No matter how much he loathed himself he had to be happy. Not for himself, Barnabas would never be so selfish.

It was not himself he was thinking of now, hands still wrapped around the Career’s. His finger were much longer than his own, every joint protruding from near-translucent skin. The tendons were like a spider’s web, skin sunken around them as they disappeared into Asa’s wrist. Barnabas fought off the temptation to trace them to their root, brows furrowing deeply. Every heartbeat seemed louder, the thumping determined to make itself known before it would stop and fade into nonexistence with Barnabas. And though he had only just met this boy, he worried. The battered, broken look in his eyes made Barnabas want to hit whatever had done such a thing to him. To take on another’s suffering was an honor, because the other would no longer have to carry such a heavy burden. They didn’t deserve to.

Did Barnabas? He’d never given that question much thought.

”I meant it.” Barnabas released the boys hand, too nervous to meet Asa’s eyes but facing the general direction. ”You have to take care of yourself, Asa.” a slight frown accompanied his furrowed brows, now creasing his forehead. ”Things will be different in there.” Even thinking of the arena sent shivers down his spine. How easy it was, to lose yourself in the pleasantries of the capitol and forget that such things would be nothing but a memory in a few days’ time. He knew the boy had no reason to listen to him, and had Barnabas been in Asa’s position, he wouldn’t have. It just felt good to finally care for another. To instead think of another’s mortality and not his own.

”You do it, or I will.” It wasn’t a threat, Barnabas decided, but a promise.

{and i will try to
f i x  y o u;

[gamemaker kelsier]

[presto][/presto]

Maybe he didn't like his name. That was the only way to explain why he flinched so visibly when I said it. Or maybe he just doesn't like me saying it, I can understand that. I have experience with that. Kids can be cruel and surprisingly enough, the mental capacities of careers can understand the logic behind not only physical abuse but mental abuse as well. I like his name, it suits him. I mouth it, turning my face away first, disguising the movement of my lips by twisting and turning against the railing so that my back is against the glass panes and I am sliding down them to face the closed balcony doors. In the time that it took to do so, I was able to practice it three times. It's a nice name, it's different and it has three syllables. My name has two syllables. It takes a shorter amount of time to yell it across a house, a shorter amount of time to say, a shorter amount of time to have to bother remembering.

Barnabas is memorable. People will remember his name. I will remember his name. I've practiced it at least three times now. Four times.

It comes to my attention that I'm either having a mental breakdown on a random balcony in the Capitol with a strange boy intent on saving my life or I've finally gone insane. I'd like to go with option two, only because it's so much easier to explain.

He takes my hand, and I wonder if it's to feel my pulse again. I know it's slower than it should be. I can hear it in the back of my head sometimes, thumping away slowly, like the footsteps of a giant, deep in thought. I'm waiting for the moment when it just stops thumping and I'll be left hanging, listening for the next thud but it will never come. I would live in quiet suspense then, always so patient. I could wait for a century or two. Maybe forever.

I watch, mute as his fingers wrap around mine. His are strong, sturdy, slightly tan. Mine look like those of a wraith. I wonder when it was that I became so pale, when it was that I started to become so very transparent. I did this to myself. The thought is comforting.

"I meant it, you have to take care of yourself, Asa.”

I stare at him, slightly confused. He does not look at me, but past me, as if I am far away and he's speaking to me on the telephone. My mother says that sometimes, before she starts to put the tea mugs away and I know that it's my cue to leave. That phrase is a throw away phrase, one my Mother used to tell me that she knew what a Mother was meant to say to her son. She never told me she loved me though so I never really believed her. For a long time I believed that she was meant to take care of me, that one day she would look at me, would see what I'd become and she'd finally apologize for leaving all those years ago but she never did and I waited, but she never did. It's a throw away phrase for a throw away boy.

"You do it, or I will."

I don't understand his game, what his tactic is. It doesn't make much sense politically to make such a threat. In fact, it's the complete opposite of what a threat should be. I look away for a minute, trying to calculate what he means and my vision follows at a leisurely pace, the balcony sliding along beneath my gaze as I look away from the boy who has...I don't know what he has done. This is something that has never happened before. No one has ever said such a thing to me, threatened me with kindness.

Besides, I'm fine. I don't need it. I don't need to look like a weakling because I already am one. I don't need anyone to look after me. It's been seventeen years of being alone and I've made it this far, I've survived long enough to die and that's all I had to do. That's all I've got to do to make my father proud. If I can just hold on for one more week.

"Why?"

It takes a few seconds for me to realize that I have said the word myself. This is unprecedented. No words have ever escaped my lips so easily before. The gatekeepers did not even see the question coming, it slipped past their careful guard before they could lock my lips.

"W-why, why do you, whydoyoueven, why do you care?"

you a r e so
b r a v e and q u i e t
I forget
y o u are
s u f f e r i n g

[presto][/presto]

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

B A R N A B A S   S T R O U D

Why. It was a harder answer than it should have been. Not so much the reason itself, but the words which seemed reluctant to leave his lips. How would he tell someone that their life eclipsed his in importance? That his chances at survival were so much greater than Barnabas' it was no use fighting? That to keep himself sane, he had to delude himself that he wasn't preparing to take lives, but to save one

"Because-" for the first time his voice did not falter, his eyes held Asa's with strong certainty, "you don't." It was truth enough, Barnabas could see it in the boy's eyes, hell his whole body. No doctor worth the title couldn't notice the slowed pulse or sunken cheeks. The fact they hadn't was enough to make him nauseous. It seemed all that existed in the upper districts apathy. This boy, no older than he, a victim of it. "I..." he struggled to find the words, yet found himself desperate to make Asa understand, "I've spent my whole life trying to save people. A death sentence won't change that."

He could still remember that dark void that consumed him after his parent’s murder. The hopelessness that still visited him today, on dark nights when he was lonely. Months had been wasted buried beneath the sheets of his grandparent’s guest room, rarely eating or sleeping. Even existing seemed like more of a nuisance than a necessity. It was not until his grandmother insisted he accompany her to work, and he finally let go of the burden that was his parent’s death, did he realize that he had been killing himself. Desperate to end the pain by any means short of putting a gun to his head. Perhaps that would have been a better end than the one he was faced with now.

It was their smiles that saved him. Those of the ailing and wounded, touched by the angel that was his grandmother. Her job didn’t pay well, and was rather thankless, but when faced when anther she would always decline. There was nothing she loved more than the smile of a man able to return to work, and to save his family from starvation. She passed such a novelty down to her grandson, at first bringing him to her rounds and telling him all about her patients. Upon his insistence, she began to show him the trade. The knowledge passed down from an old mentor to her and now to Barnabas. He had hoped to one day do the same, alas as his days were numbered it looked like he’d never have the chance.

These were the things Barnabas Stroud thought of during long nights spent curled upon the bathroom floor. The times he allowed himself to wallow in the injustice of it all. He would never be allowed a love, a family or a life. Before his name was called, the boy gave little thought to a life after eighteen. Whether he wished to settle down, or even whom he wished to settle down with. Grandpa Stroud would often question him as to whether he ever intended to find a “little lady” and settle down like he had. In response Grandma Stroud had always hit him over the head, insisting Barnabas could settle down with whoever he liked and giving the boy a knowing wink.

He never did understand what she meant.

Love was something selfish, he had long ago decided. Something you did for yourself and only that. Mother and Father would have never wanted him to be so selfish. Every lesson instilled in him since birth had been that of helping others, his pain was insignificant because somewhere out there, someone else had it worse, and Barnabas should be helping them instead of being self-centered. If he had managed to live through the reapings, he would have devoted himself entirely to his work. Perhaps even branched off of maternity medicine and began caring for children. Barnabas had always loved children. They were the embodiment of all that was good, having yet to be corrupted by life’s wicked ways. He knew that because that’s what his parents had told him and his parents were always right.

Except when they lied. Guilt consumed him for even thinking of the dead in such an awful manner, but no matter which way he bent their words each one had been a dirty lie. Perhaps it was to save his soul, the boy would never know their reasoning, and it mattered little now. He was here. He was going to die.

And it was all their fault.

{and i will try to
f i x  y o u;

[gamemaker kelsier]

[presto][/presto]

His answer is not enough for me. It's a lie anyway, no one cares that much about anyone to put the lives of others before their own. I know from experience. Love is a fable, romanticized through the ages and doesn't really exist, not in Two, not anywhere. Love was equivalent to training. To show your parents love you trained. Your parents showed you their love by training you. That was it, how it went. Once I had thought that my mother had loved me but it wasn't true. She'd left me with my father and brother after all. She was like everyone else, self invested and conventionally removed. I see that now. I am a career raised by careers and I know this, everyone knows this, Barnabas had to know this too.

I don't speak, with no words ever at hand I often lose the will to. Instead, I study the hands that rest loosely in my lap. He was so interested in my hands, the way he pressed his fingers against mine. his hands had been warm, soothing. Mine are terminally cold, I can never warm them. They are often numb. They are pale too, it is because I am not feeling well. It's the excuse I often use. I am often not feeling well I suppose.

I've seen of course what I am becoming in the mirror. I choose to ignore it because the more weight I lose the happier my father is and the happier my father is, the more he leaves me alone. The more Heracles stays away, the more that woman my father married stays silent, the more my mother says she worries for me. "You're looking sick Asa, you need to eat more." she'd always say it but never feed me. She was like that, full of caring words with none of the care. I'm sorry that I ever believed that she even cared at all.

This kid can't convince me that he does.

He doesn't though.

He's made himself into a martyr I suppose, he thinks that if he fixes enough poor souls then maybe he'll have lived a life worth living. I can see it in the way he looks at me, like I'm his mother's favourite piece of china and he's just smashed me to smithereens.

He doesn't know the fact that I have been broken over and over and put back together so many times that I've lost count. One touch from him isn't going to make it any better or any worse. Believing that it's his job to take care of me just because he thinks he's going to die turns me into a project. I don't want to be just a project. I'm a human being.

His eyes are sad too. I see it when I look up from my hands. He's got a mouth that smiles but eyes that don't really match. I see it a lot where I come from, people pretending that life isn't really shit. I know it too, that's what I do when anybody cares to look my way. They don't often, I'm swept under the rug a lot, the new boy at school and far too quiet I barely stand out when I stand against the quiet wallpaper that I stand against, always at the back of the class.

Barnabas looks healthy but he's not.

I can see it in the way he stands.

I want to tell him that I wouldn't mind it. Him taking care of me. I'm a romantic at heart and the idea of someone caring enough to want to help me makes my chest heavy but I haven't made it this far by trusting people to stay by my side. I'm forgettable. People forget about me and I'm used to it.

I don't know why he noticed me from across the room in the first place. Sometimes when I glance towards him I see the traces of fear leaving his eyes, like he's trying to tame a tiger. I know that I have a fear factor simply because of my career status. If only they knew what a sad excuse for a beast I really was.

Maybe we're more similar than he seems to believe.

He must think that no one can see that pain but I have lived a life of so much empathy that the enormity of it is staring me right in the face.

I am scared, alone, half-mad with fear and I have been trained to be here, how must he feel?

"Then....thenthen....then I, I will take care of...of you," I say, voice as firm as I can make it. My body may be weak but my mind is sharp, strong. I am a watcher, a background noise. "Be-because, you don't."

you a r e so
b r a v e and q u i e t
I forget
y o u are
s u f f e r i n g

[presto][/presto]

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

B A R N A B A S   S T R O U D

He stiffens at the boy’s retort, eyes met by that of a skeptic. The world was a more cynical place than Barnabas had once thought. Then again, the world was a lot of things Barnabas would never know. His head simply couldn’t wrap around Asa’s words, just like so many years ago when the teachers had goaded him into an incorrect answer. But I don’t understand. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t. Barnabas was a polite little boy, just like father had wanted. He did only what came naturally to him, the meek boy he was.

”I’m sorry.” What he was apologizing for, Barnabas was unsure. Asa Reau could not have been genuine, surely he meant to spite the boy for some wrong he had unknowingly committed. Barnabas was not meant to be cared for, even as a child his parents had shown him little affection. He did not need to be cared for, he could do it all by himself. Surely letting yourself fall by the wayside was no sin when another was being helped. That’s what his parents had told him and his parents were always right. They wanted a perfect little soldier and here he was, and the soldier did not like the challenge Asa Reau presented. Hated that he dare suggest Barnabas someone who needed to be cared for. He couldn’t be that selfish, he couldn’t let himself be helped.

Head now directed at the cement, he could feel embers making wet paths down his cheeks. They fell onto the pavement with a sizzle. The flow was endless, the soldier neither spoke nor dare to look up. It was not from sadness that he cried, as those tears had long since been wasted. He was neither scared nor angry. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what he was feeling, it was as if the career’s reply had unearthed emotions long since buried. ”I’m sorry Asa.”

He couldn’t make himself understand why he kept repeating the phrase, let alone give Asa a solid explanation. Yet, like the tears, he found words spilling from him at a pace rivaled only by an ocean’s current. ”I don’t- I don’t understand. Why can’t- can’t I help? I need- I need to. It hurts- to see someone hurting. N-not selfish. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” Father was disappointed. Mother was disappointed. He could feel their eyes, long since decayed, burning into his flesh as he faced his own failure. His words were halted, interrupted by sharp breaths and hiccups.

Selfish. Selfish. Selfish. the words refused to leave his mind. Like a record stuck on repeat, he could hear his parent’s voices. The stories they told him, detailing where selfish little boys went, of the horrors they faced because they cared for themselves more than others. Barnabas Stroud was not selfish. Barnabas Stroud was a good little soldier.

Barnabas Stroud was selfish. Barnabas Stroud was a failure.

Every breath was painful, invisible hands forcing themselves around his chest so could only manage short gasps and desperate gulps. I’m sorry. How selfish he was, crying in front of another. Daring to show his own pain when Asa obviously had suffered greater hardships than he ever would. Trivial were his problems in comparison to the career. I’m sorry. Barnabas did not need to be cared for. I’m sorry. He was not selfish. I’m sorry.

The little soldier had begun to take shape upon his fifth birthday. No presents were given to the boy, not a happy birthday was to be found. The house was not filled with the scents of pastries or a home-cooked meal to celebrate five years of survival. Barnabas scarce knew the day was any different to the others, save that he would be helping his mother knit blankets for Grandma Stroud’s patients. It was never a celebration for him, but for another. Barnabas never received presents, he only gave them.

He didn’t understand why Asa had chosen to give him a present. The soldier did not deserve to be relieved of his duties. Whether the career was genuine or not, his words were something Barnabas hated. Never before had he felt such strong aversion and immense gratitude, for that he was selfish.

For that he must be punished.

{and this is how it feels
to take a
f a l l;

[gamemaker kelsier]

[presto][/presto]

It is odd to watch the emotions that flow so freely across his face. I have been raised in a District that does not approve of feeling of any kind, to see it so openly is odd. Again I wonder what it must be like to live in a place other than Two. I wonder if it is possible to lead happy lives, if that concept has ever been accomplished somewhere else. Somehow it makes me feel bitter. With no competition in our lives it is possible that my brother and I might have gotten along, my father would not have been so intent upon our deaths. The thought that life could be different is nearly insane but there is something so sweet about the idea, I ache to hold onto it.

He apologizes.

I do not understand why. In my world apologies are useless, you either have meant what you have done or the other person should not be so weak as to be offended. A career never apologized, it was something my father had to get beaten out of me. I can barely form the words needed now without cringing. He's cringing already, tears rolling down his cheeks and I don't know what I have done this time to put him off.

I just shouldn't try to make friends, something always goes wrong and it's often my fault. 'you're too shy Asa, you're too weak, too fat, too sad, too ugly, too clumsy...' and the list goes on and on. The truth must be that I'm a plague upon humanity, a mutation, a virus. I can't get anything right at all.

I shut my eyes against his tears and the spinning balcony, focusing on the feeling of nausea that is there in the back of my head still. Leaning my head back, I try to ignore his tears and his apologies, knowing now that friendship is impossible. My father creeps through the back of my skull, shaking his head. He would want me to find stronger friends anyway, that look more capable of wielding a weapon, not those that freak out at the idea of anyone wanting to car-

Oh.

He's like me.

Maybe we're not exactly the same, I doubt he's led the same life as me but we're the very same none-the-less. We want to be cared for, we crave it but anytime someone comes close, we tuck our tails in and we run because it's scary. I know this well because even the thought of someone wanting to take care of me nearly made me sneer in disbelief.

I understand now.

I open my eyes and look at Barnabas Stroud, who is still freaking out. This is the part where I should try to soothe him, where I should tell him that it's alright. It's not really my place to do so. Who would listen to a guy like me anyway? I'm just some weakling from District Two, worth nothing except the glorious death I will succeed in for my father. That's what he's wanted this entire time I suspect, me to die in the games so that he can finally think of me with pride, so that he can finally learn to love his second son, his weakling.

I can't move, I can't speak because I am afraid.

What words could I offer Barnabas that someone better than me hasn't already?

Why should he care what I have to say to him.

He doesn't care Asa, why would he want to listen to the words of a guy like you?

He just looks so sad and so frightened I want to comfort him but I am just me and I've never had something worthwhile to say anyway, no one has ever been interested in really listening to me. My tongue is too heavy and my lips take too long to shape the words, by the time I get the first one out the listener often loses patience.

I'm scared to speak, scared to make it worse. I don't want to be alone here, I'm so tired of being alone.

"Shhh," I make the sound, lips parting and tongue slightly pressed against the roof of my mouth. My fingers reach out again, catching on his shirt, curling around the hem, tugging him forward. "...I, Iamsorry," I softly say, eyes falling to stare at the balcony floor, too embarrassed, too shy to actually look at him. "..It's al-alright. You can take c-care of me if...if you want." I don't mutter the unspoken part, that I'm still going to help him too just because I know what it's like to feel alone.

"You don't have to....youdon'thavetobeafraid."

you a r e so
b r a v e and q u i e t
I forget
y o u are
s u f f e r i n g

[presto][/presto]

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

B A R N A B A S   S T R O U D

I don't understand. His thoughts are panicked, a jumbled mess the boy cannot make head nor tails of. When Asa apologizes, everything stops. Once again his understanding of the world was trampled beneath his feet, so rapidly it was more than painful. Please don't be afraid. How could he not? Soon enough they'd be enemies, this moment lost in the wind and a sword at his throat. It was enough to send his head reeling once more. Barnabas knew not why he cared about the boy, nor why he felt such a strong need to help him, to help someone.  Asa's gentle tug stopped his tears, they settling just behind his eyes threatening to force themselves through at any second. He was vulnerable, breaking like glass in front of the career, yet he forced a watery smile. 

"I'm sor-" he caught himself.

"T-t-t-thank you, Asa." he was struck with sudden affection, regarding the boy once again. His heart still thrashed wildly, every breath painful and labored, but there was something different about it all. Legs willingly collapsing beneath him, he sat cross-legged upon the cement hands sprawled behind him for support. No matter how hard he tried to calm himself, he simply couldn't and it frustrated him all the more. He didn't- couldn't - understand the career in front of him. There was no way Asa truly cared, right? No one cared. He didn't think such things with spite or pitied himself for it, it was simply a truth he'd come to accept. Nobody cared for Barnabas, not even himself. 

Asa seemed just as reluctant as he, only agreeing to be helped when Barnabas broke. He'd never met someone like him, someone who believed themselves impossible to be loved. The soldier saw it in his eyes whenever he spoke, a kind of sadness he only recognized when he looked in the mirror. But Barnabas wasn't sad, Barnabas couldn't be sad, he was an emotionless protector and he didn't matter. 

For the first time, he wanted to. He wanted to matter to someone before he died. 

"I am afraid." it hurt to acknowledge "I'm really, really scared Asa. I don't want to see you killing yourself, when the Arena will already be doing that." the tears threatened to push past their barrier and his head hung low between his knees. "Please." his voice cracked, a sob managing to break free. He felt pathetic and embarrassed, barely able to lift his head to look Asa in the eye. What else could he do when his world had collapsed beneath him, leaving him standing on a shard of what used to be? Nothing would be the same anymore. Yet he knew he wanted to protect Asa, perhaps because he'd managed to project everything he wanted to be on the boy or perhaps because he reminded him so much of himself. 

Never before had he felt so self conscious, tugging at the hem of his shirt and playing with his hair. His eyes were swollen and red, tender from crying and the panic having yet to subside. No matter his attempts to distract himself his emotions remained raw and exposed, heart steadily making its way to his sleeve. He found himself closer to Asa without the slightest idea of how he got there. 

And his arms wrapped around the boy pulling him as close as he dared with gentle force. Asa was cold, shoulders sharp against his own but he didn't let go. Grandma Stroud had always hugged him when he wandered into her arms after a nightmare. She'd moved her hand gently across his back and promise that none of it was real, and that he was here now and awake and safe. What he'd give to be there now. 

Instead he buried himself in Asa, clutching at his shirt with the desperation of a child. Please, tell me it's going to be alright. Tell me this is all a dream. Even though he was well aware such a wish would never be granted he felt better. The stray tears that'd managed to create a steady stream against his cheeks had ceased, leaving him clutching a boy he had only just met. 

And not wanting to let go.

{when all of your flaws
and all of my flaws
are laid out one by one;

[gamemaker kelsier]

[presto][/presto]

We don't do hugging back home.

The last time anyone held me with affection I was five years old and sitting in my mother's lap, she had her arms around me, I felt safe and warm. I started training though and that was trained out of me, the ability to reach out and ask for the warmth of my mother's love. I don't remember how, I just know that by the time I was six, it didn't even occur to me to wrap my arms around her legs anymore. It wasn't proper, I was training to be a warrior and warriors don't need their moms.

It's been years.

His arms wrap around me and it's tight. I stiffen on instinct, arms beginning to push to perform the counter attack for a hold. I catch myself just in time, stilling in his grasp, putting my life in his hands. It is an uncomfortable feeling, it's terrifying actually. People don't touch me unless it's to give me pain, I'm waiting for it, for him to wrap his hands around my neck and squeeze all the air out of me. Maybe he has a knife concealed in his sleeve and it's about to go into my back.

I raise my hands up, the fingers curling in towards my palms, relaxed for now but ready to fight, ready to attempt to save myself from him.

Over his shoulder I can see movement from inside, people laughing, eating. They're drinking in there. We're going to be killing each other next week. Do they think about that too or do they believe that like me, we'll by dying by the dozens in the first five minutes. There is going to be no winning in this, the loser is the last one standing. We've been given a death sentence just for living and everyone is acting like it's normal. It is. It shouldn't be.

I don't want Barnabas to die.

I feel his fingers wrap themselves up in my shirt and slowly, hesitantly, I lower my head, resting it on the top of his.

He seems like a good person, better than me.

I allow my arms to wrap around him, one and then the other, first resting lightly on his back and then holding tighter in turn as I settle myself into the mechanics of the embrace. Shutting my eyes, I hold him tighter, knowing somehow that it's the right thing to do, that this is the way to give him comfort.

In a situation like this, I should be embarrassed, eager to get away. When other people come near me it scares me because other people are dangerous things. I know it because of the way that they have been treating me for my entire life. My childhood was unhappy, cold, painful. There was no warmth.

I feel safe here.

"Me too," I say, voice steady, "So ally with me then. Let's be afraid together."

My father would be screaming at me if he could hear what I've just done. I'm meant to ally with the Careers, as in the strongest people I can find. Barnabas is from Seven and it looks like he's never lifted a weapon up in his life, let alone stepped foot in a training center.

His strength is terrifying in it's height.

you a r e so
b r a v e and q u i e t
I forget
y o u are
s u f f e r i n g

[presto][/presto]

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

B A R N A B A S   S T R O U D

He didn't know what to expect the moment he wrapped his arms around Asa, but it certainly wasn't this. His lips curled into a smile against the career's shoulder, tears once again managing to pool in the corners of his eyes. They were not sad, his heart not heavy or palpitating, he was glad. Barnabas was glad to have someone's arms around him, someone to protect him. Although the incessant tugging in the back of his mind wished for him to break free, to once again apologize for his selfishness, he couldn't bring himself to let go. He'd never felt the arms of one his own age, parents isolating him from any friend he could have made and grandparents too blinded by their grief to dare contradict his parent's teachings. He didn't hate any of them, but this felt too nice to ruin. 

Asa was beautiful, the soldier realized, not simply just his outward appearance but the person he concealed behind a veil. In truth, the boy shouldn't have even acknowledged Barnabas, save to abuse him for being as stupid as he had. Instead, he comforted Barnabas, nothing more than a scared boy. He wrapped his arms around him and made him feel better. Asa was kind and considerate and beautiful. When he speaks, breaking the warm silence, Barnabas could feel his heart break. The pain consuming him not from grief, but from hope. To have something that he'd never before had. 

Let's be afraid together.

He wanted to kiss someone, joy filling every single part of his being. Asa Reau, a career, his ally in the games. It sent shivers down his spine and warmth to his cheeks. Barnabas couldn't speak, simply nodding into his chest and gripping him tighter. Perhaps his need to help Asa had stemmed from selfishness alone, but he felt as though he'd gotten to know the boy in only a few words. He felt a need to keep the fragile career away from harm's way, to give his life for another, for a friend. Surviving had never been an option, it seemed too impossible to comprehend. It was for Asa, he insisted, trying harder than anything to convince himself that his joy was not stemmed from a selfish need. 

Even if it was. 

Barnabas scarce knew what a friend was, parents instilling fear of those his own age in him since birth. Whoever dared come near their baby boy was met with cold stares and furrowed brows. None were ever brave enough to speak to him. They even told him not to speak to anyone, his first day at school, to keep his head down and not make an spectacle of himself. His peers tried, they really did, but Barnabas was taught that friends were selfish. And that they were. Perhaps he didn't care, not right now. 

They seemed especially frightened of girls, one night the little boy heard his mother insisting she'd never let anyone take him away. In school they requested he only be seated next to boys, preferably older than he. Not that he'd ever minded really, his eyes always seemed to stick to them anyway. The older he grew the lonelier he became, one time even caving to selfish desires and letting a boy speak to him. They had held hands that entire day. 

Barnabas, so stricken with guilt, had told his parents he had made a friend. They'd sat down and had a long talk with him, saying that you'd never be able to help a friend, that if he really cared about said person, he would remain aloof and never speak to him again. Only fourteen, he accepted their word as gospel, ignoring the boy's attempts to talk to him once again. A year later his parents were dead and the boy was gone. Barnabas was alone, just as they'd always wanted. 

He looked up at Asa, eyes akin to an owl's, wide and watery. "Do... do you think we could be friends?" his eyes fell to his hands, still gripping Asa's shirt and he forced himself to let go, finding himself more than unwilling. "I've never really had one... before." 

You can't help a friend, Barnabas, emotional attachments only get in the way. You can't help someone and be so selfish.

He would prove them wrong.

{when all of your flaws
and all of my flaws
are laid out one by one;