.:Read My Mind:. [Roger x Heath Blitz]

[Deleted]

Heathcliff Travers

Heathcliff wasn’t sure if he missed his sister.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t love her; the two had never been apart more than two days his whole life. Funny how love was measured in time—age was the only thing that people used to quantify it. Heathcliff supposed it was much like any living thing. Love could go stale, could spoil, grow cold, and fade away. Yet he was happy all the same, standing on the edge of the rooftop garden, staring out at the street all alone. He could imagine his sister behind him, wrapped in their little blanket. She would be drifting to sleep just then, and tell him he wouldn’t be worth anything tomorrow if he didn’t as well. She’d say something mean about his face, or hair, and he’d snipe back that she was hogging too much of the covers.

They played games when he couldn’t fall asleep. Just about the only thing they could do in the quiet of their dank little wooden room was come up with distractions to fill it up. The breadth of the garden had him wondering what she would’ve thought of all the flowers. They could’ve made a crown; just like he’d always wanted. She would play queen, and he the fool. That was he—the fool—but not to make her laugh. The sage fool, the same one that reminded her daily of all the good things, the great things, of what they should have been.

He unstrung a deck of cards from his pocket and knelt into the soft grass. His bony fingers traced along the soft covers of the cards, and folded them over one another into a shuffle. He drew seven cards and started to lay them out. A four of clubs, a six of diamonds. He crinkled his nose and stared hard at the cards as they scattered. He traced along their edges and dipped closer. The game had been their way of seeing through the shadows, and didn’t take much convincing for either of them to believe what had once been fake could be real.

“Tell you a fortune?” Heathcliff said, peering over the cards in front of him. A shadow had crept up and over him, blocking the light of the stars and the dim overheads, too. Better to play a game with someone else’s life than to look too much further into his own.

[aya]

[attr="id","postBody"]

[attr="id","headerPic"]

Jolly Roger Strangways-Teach is grateful for the rooftop garden situated on top of the Training Center. It is the last bit of fresh air allotted to the tributes before they're shipped off to their arena. The wilderness deathtrap itself, of course, is likely to be _only_ fresh air, but somehow he suspects it will be harder to enjoy the view when he's busy trying not to get stabbed in the throat.

He isn't alone this evening. A ways off from the stairs, a solitary boy plays solitaire — he's on the younger side, so Roger notes that (surprisingly) this is the boy from Two. Travis? Hearth? He can't quite remember, but it doesn't seem to matter.

"Tell you a fortune?" Trevor offers.

Roger doesn't like thinking about the future. He never did. The future was filled with uncertainty, with closed doors and set paths, where all of the but what if...?s were scratched out in stone. Where all of the figs on the branching tree he sat beneath had withered and died waiting for the career boy to make a decision, any decision that he could commit to.

He'd taken an axe to the tree in the instant he'd raised his hand at the reaping.

Fuck figs.

Fuck decisions.

But now that the only road to travel left in this world for Roger Strangways-Teach was the one labeled die, it was easier to entertain ideas about what might become of him.

A smile broke over the rocky shore of his face. [attr="id","rSpeech"]"Let's hear it, then. Gonna tell me how I'll die, Two?"

Fuck caring.

tags - marguerite harvard d2a (zori)

[newclass="#headerPic"]background-image:url('http://i.imgur.com/fFPJv2W.jpg');width:500px;height:291px;[/newclass]
[newclass="#postBody"]color:#222222;background-color:#aaaabb;font-size:12px;font-family:Georgia;width:500px;text-align:justify;[/newclass]
[newclass="#rSpeech"]color:#446788;[/newclass]

[Deleted]

H E A T H C L I F F

The boy from four had lovely hair. Long, straight, thick—Heathcliff imagined a wig would be marvelous. And the thick masculine beard made him so much older, his strong features broody but coupled with the plain brown eyes exactly the sort of man you’d never quite figure out. Perhaps another boy would’ve been afraid of Roger, or snapped at the rejoinder he offered. But Heathcliff felt him more a lost cat wandering home. He was skittish, and ready to swat Heath away if necessary. At the least he would give Four his best fortune, whatever that may have been.

“It will happen,” Heathcliff looked down at his cards and shuffled them. “But that’s not the only thing you want to know, is it? Death is so boring. So common. So…” Heathcliff began laying out his cards. Past, present, future. Love. Death. Fate. “predictable. No, if I only told you that you’d just laugh and leave.” Heathcliff looked up and gave a smile. “Besides, it won’t be as bad as the way I go.” Heathcliff’s eyes reflected under the lights and he held his gaze. He wouldn’t be afraid, not when the time came. As long as he had lived who he was meant to be.

He flipped over the first three cards. Jack of spades. Eight of clubs. Ten of diamonds. Heathcliff ran a finger along the jack before placing it atop the ten. He sighed and gave a shrug. “The jack of spades—one eyed jack. Your past. Charming… but you’ve always been attracted to the easy out. You like to stretch the truth. But the present is different. You…” Heath tapped a finger on the ground, and looked from Roger to the card again. “You’ve got a concentrated focus. Or trying. It’ll pay off—if you don’t cut and run.” Heathcliff sat back. Some people liked this game, others thought it utter shit. But he liked how much this knew found knowledge often revealed about those who sought it.

“Should I go on, Four, or are you going to cut and run?”

Made by Frankel