Word Up! - Little Mix [Callum/Bird]

[pogue]

C   A   L   L   U   M

"Did you ever see the 70th when you were a kid?"

The question slip from his mouth and rest easy against the tension between Bird and himself, pressure digging its dirty claws into his skin and resting the weight of their own deaths on their shoulders. Kestrel was gone, that he was sure of, and as her body rested mere feet away his mind replays the vicious words that him and Bird had spat at one another. The way it courses through his veins and his memory like poison, deadly concoction of one part despair and two parts regret, mixing together and poisoning every heart string that rested within their chests.

He doesn't need to wait for her answer because he already knows it, of course she has. The Games served as a reminder just as much as they did a punishment, etching the stories of those who had been sacrificed into the life blood veins of every district. What that meant was that once the most recent games had finished turning their blood soaked pages, the screens that dotted each Capitol building within their City Square set their sights on describing each painstaking moment of the Games past that Capitolites had been able to cling to.

Cling to, at six years old his fingers cling to Elijah's as they make their way through the District Square, weaving through the ebb and flow of citizens that are worse for wear, wearing knights armor made of the same coal smog that watches them from above, making sure the coffin they rest in stays exactly how it is supposed to be. As his older brother had tugged him along his eyes had watched Caesar Flickerman's fiery orange hair as he'd recapped a moment from the 70th Games, letting the crowd in front of him ooo and aaa within their own bloody nostalgia, gazing in childlike wonder at their own little screens. He hadn't known the boy that rolled and lunged within the videos of the screen, but as Caesar made some comment about his beard Callum had been able to catch the tribute gather up a Delivery Word in his arms, the promise of a sunflowers seed a fitting promise for the mutt.

Flame and bloody bottle carried into the sunset and Callum had watched a bomb fall within that arena, written story he'd never been able to force himself to forget.

He feels his bones groan in protest as he rises to his feet, shining emeralds shifting and sliding beneath his feet while his eyes narrow in on the Delivery Words that hop and peck their way through the area near them, releasing silent squawks and murmurs into the void. They're pesky little buggers,  Delivery Words, and as he attempts to swallow whatever spit is left in his throat he silently creeps closer towards the mutts, heartbeat thumping within his chest and echoing through his ears, half his heart telling him that the sound will do nothing but give his idea away.

"I have an idea..." He whispers to Bird, not letting his gaze drift to her face to catch what he assumes will be a scowl or an eye roll. He can't blame her after their argument earlier.

He lunges, claws bared and the thump thump thump of a heartbeat  cheering him on.

Callum Leare attempts to catch a Delivery Word


19M9l|VPxV1-4

1-4

[pogue]

C   A   L   L   U   M

"Mother fucker."

He lets the bloody swear drip from his lips and follows it up with a strong of obscenities unfit for any fairy tale that had ever been told within the spaces of the schoolhouses he visited. Emerald gem stones scratch and slices into his hands as he hits the ground, the mutts that he'd so vainly attempted to catch chirping and screeching at the sudden disruption to their peaceful grazing, a chorus of flapping wings laughing at him as they take flight. They settle down once more moments later, finding a new focus about a hundred feet to his left. 

And so the story flips back to page one, page turning as he stand sup and brushes bloody reminders from his cloak, the words of Kes's story falling down to the ground below and tainting the myriad of stones a sickly red hue.

He makes his way back to his ally, sighing as he does so before again turning back towards the mutts that peck and claw at the stones. It baffles him, the way they drive their beaks into the stones below, desperate for something the emerald soil they stand on will never give them. Simple creatures, he thinks to himself. But maybe I'm just a simple creature, too. He realizes.

"Some kid sent a bomb using a Delivery Word, I know we don't have the materials for a bomb but, I figured if we could catch one..." 

He lets his words trail off and allows Bird to finish the story he'd started, sighing as he turns his attention once again on the mutts that taunt them from a distance, already having forgotten the panic and stress that had flooded their systems just moments ago. He wishes it was that easy, feeling Kestrel's eyes burn holes into his back as he stands. He wishes he could forget as easy as the mutts he looks at now.

"What do you think? For Kes." Callum says quietly, careful not to disturb the mutts as he goes back to the mission at hand, hearing his ally stand behind him to join the mission. He crouches this time, like a cat prowling through the wilderness, letting distant memories of bittersweet moments with his older brother flood the back of his mind.

Callum Leare attempts to catch a Delivery Word


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1-4

[pogue]

C   A   L   L   U   M

"Why are we crouching again, Eli?"

"Shh! Just be quiet and look, Cal."

The forests outside of District Twelve turn boys into men, at least that is what Elijah had told him. Yet, an eight year old Callum Leare can't feel the bloody triumph of manhood course through his blood like he had so eagerly expected to, doesn't feel the exhilirating sting of victory that Elijah had led him to believe would happen.

Instead, he feels a heartbeat and a half thumping within his chest and a silent fear that burrows and finds its way into his bones, twisting and tumbling until it finds its way into his hands, childhood shakes rippling through him. It's like his older brother can sense it even without looking at him, brushing his fingertips against his before interlacing fingers into his own, turning towards him and letting a small smile show to his little brother.

We'll be fine, Elijah had said half-heartedly as he'd peeled back the raggedy fence for Callum to slip through, eyes not catching the way his little brothers gaze slips to him for assurance as he keeps an eye out.

"We'll be fine." Elijah repeats to him again, squeezing his hand. To Callum, he finally allows himself to believe it.

Rustling leaves and Elijah's hand clasps over his mouth before Callum can let words of curiosity slip from his lips, stopping the story so that another can be told right before their very eyes. Callum nearly swats the hand away, but as the deer struts into his gaze the breath he'd wanted to so heavily let loose catches within his throat, and silence twists and swirls around the two of them as they watch.

It's movements are graceful, serene and child-like, and as the animal rests on rickety legs and stumbles its way forward through the wilderness, Callum realizes that it is nothing but a child, finding its way through the world.

His heartbeat rings in their hands as he squeezes his older brothers grasp just a little bit tighter.

Callum Leare attempts to catch a Delivery Word


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1-4

[pogue]

C   A   L   L   U   M

"My brother and I used to watch the animals in the forests outside Twelve."

He lets the sentence hang in the air between him and Bird, frustration clearly evident in his voice as he once again regains his composure after lunging at the mutts, the bright little bastards easily outmaneuvering him and his weak grasp. He had half a mind to take his sword and drive it into the throats of the mutts, rip the wings from their bodies and declare himself as the knight in golden armor, a hero to his own story.

When he looks down and sees Kestrel's blood dancing across his cloak, the sunlight drying it into a wicked reminder of the empty promise he had managed to break in record time, he realizes once again that he would never be a knight. Just a boy and a weapon, a page to turn and a story to forget.

"He always used to tell me that you should never disturb an animal in their natural habitat, or something like that."

He doesn't really know if Bird cares to hear his story, but the past three chances of hopelessly attempting to catch the Words are draining him, and in the same way that a bottle and a broken  heart had let his story flow out to Steel and Lysander he lets himself do the same thing within the emerald fields that they are buried in.

His mind wanders to his older brother, the way he had managed to squeeze his own heart into his fingertips and lace them into his, wordlessly watching the world run without them in the forests of Twelve. He has half a mind and a heartbeat to break his focus on the Words in front of him to focus on the words he had written in his past, plucking and cutting every little heartstring Elijah had extended to him and replaced them with the pages of a fairy tale. Yet, when he grinds his teeth and tastes the iron taste of a bloodied busted lip he snaps back into reality, a harsh one for sure. 

He was a story teller, after all. Or at least, he had been.

"Guess I can't really follow that advice anymore." 

He lunges.

Callum Leare attempts to catch a Delivery Word


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[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

bird ivy

I've never understood how people make the Hunger Games look so easy. We leave our homes, the people we love, the people we don't love but hate to miss, the rooms we've made our own, the paths we've carved for ourselves, the world we've built around us — but somehow everyone manages to find enough heart for each other. Friendship. Forgiveness. Feelings. Because sure, we're all in the same boat, I understand that — but our days are numbered. Our lives are a ticking time bomb.

I exploded a long time ago.

Callum and I are alone now. Kestrel's body is still close to us but in death, she provides no middle ground for the two of us to stand on. Her silence makes room for our violence and I think about the arguments Callum and I have had, the anger and frustrations that I've taken out on him because I can feel my bones set fire every time I think of our differences, and though the spark isn't enough to cause a blaze, it leaves a plume of smoke that taints my inside darker. I've got a heavy heart, but it's not because I'm emotional, it's because I'm so completely not.

"Did you ever see the 70th when you were a kid?" He asks. The answer is obvious. The games are impossible to ignore and even more so when they are a quell games — they're subject to repeat after repeat, recount after recount until the story of the victor seems more familiar than your own. The Capitol's attempts at forcing story never compared to Mom's own twisted mind; her storytelling abilities felt far more natural and nuanced than any narrative the Capitol tried to push. The only similarity between the games and her stories is that everyone I rooted for died.

"Saw them when I was a kid. Saw them when I was a teen." And twice was more than enough.

Callum stands up quickly saying he has an idea. I like ideas, well, good ideas, anyway. Because good ideas mean that you're thinking ahead of the game. When you're racing against both time and other tributes, staying two steps ahead feels like the only advantage you're ever going to get. Lord knows the Capitol isn't going to give someone from Twelve one. We've surely had all our luck by now.

When Callum pounces towards a different kind of bird, I put two and two together and it works out to be a perfect calculation. Nobody ever roots for Twelve, but I think he's come up with a way to make sure that even when we lose, we win. 

And I think that maybe, just like me, Callum Leare exploded a long time ago too.

[ d12f bird ivy attempts to catch a delivery word ]

_gtHo5iyg61-4

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[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

bird ivy

He doesn't manage to catch one with his first try. 

"Mother fucker," he says in an annoyed tone, understandably, because when I reach out to get my own, it comes as second nature. Perhaps it's the years of going beyond the fence and exploring the world beyond the world that was supposed to be home; the babbling brooks and little creeks, the tree stumps that had words etched into the bark which I'd trace with a fallen twig from a bird's nest. There's something about the outdoors that has always resonated with me: the openness, the freedom, the ability to live without fear. 

My family never liked how I'd disappear for hours. Sometimes I'd be gone the entire day. But there's just something so awfully restrictive about living within a fenced region that made me always want to break out. Twelve is undoubtedly the worst place for anyone to live. There's murder. There's crime. There's poverty. Starvation. Orphans. Every crappy thing you can imagine. And beyond the fence, there's none of that. Perhaps the odd ominous piece of clothing that makes you wonder who it belonged to and whether they still have their tongue, but the pastures and meadows are a peaceful haven that became a backdrop to the stories I'd string together in my head.

I don't have those stories to get lost in anymore. I have my own.

"Some kid sent a bomb using a Delivery Word, I know we don't have the materials for a bomb but, I figured if we could catch one..." 

"We could try to cause some chaos." I say in response. Because catching one was bound to get someone in the Capitol on our side. More money than sense, I'm sure some millionaire would throw their pocket change our way just to get some entertainment. The odds are surely against us with Kes dying. But her lingering face in my mind sets a fuse off within me that sparks a riot; it is thirsty for justice. "For Kes," I repeat back to him, throwing a glance over my shoulder to where we battled for her life.

Whilst Callum tries to catch a delivery word of his own, the one in my hands tries to peck an escape from between my fingers. I hold it tightly, though, watching on as Callum tries again and again to take another from the air. I can tell that he's getting more and more frustration with each failed attempt, his breaths slowly turning to sighs. I'd help him if it didn't mean letting this little shit take off. I take a seat on the glittering ground, the gemstones an uncomfortable surface to rest on, but it feels appropriate considering we're plotting revenge. Revenge is never comfortable.

Revenge is horrible. Mom's stories have taught me that time and time again.

"My brother and I used to watch the animals in the forests outside Twelve," Callum says out of nowhere, and it immediately draws my attention away from the mutt in my hands to him. "He always used to tell me that you should never disturb an animal in their natural habitat, or something like that. Guess I can't really follow that advice anymore."

"I used to get lost in those forests," I tell him. Maybe we're more similar than we thought. "Coming up with my own stories, acting them out like I was some sort of hero." I laugh a little because I'm everything but, especially in this arena. "I learnt that advice the hard way. I tried to take a snail back home with me once. It died. I felt bad. I never did it again."

It's so different here, though. Because it's not a forest. It's not natural. Mother Nature has had no say in how these things look. It's all dictated by a select group of masterminds in the Capitol, and when I felt this delivery word squirming between my fingers, there isn't any guilt when I think about how I'm treating it. Everything is by design with the intention to kill, and if not kill, at least do some mental harm. I think I experienced some degree of separation from this place yesterday — the petal storm was pretty but dangerous and I'd be stupid to think anything different.

I tell myself that this is a world but it isn't the world. It's just a place to get lost.

"It's a mutt. Designed. Crafted. Calculated. It's not the same." I tell him, hoping he doesn't feel bad for using his initiative. 

After a while, he finally manages to get one of his own. And I look across to him with some newfound respect for him, because no matter how hard I may not want to see it, we are in this together. And there's some silence for a few moments, but it feels necessary. Reflection, because Kes' body is still here but she is not.

But the Hunger Games does not schedule time for reflection. They are unforgiving. Unfeeling. Relentless. The silence breaks only when a silver parachute descends from the sky with a creaking metallic sound that yelps like an eerie scream. One falls into my hands — and it takes me by surprise because I thought that Twelve's luck was all out.

I open it up and look to Callum, electric. I exploded a long time ago, but now I'm ready to live in the aftershock.

"Boom."