ext_158887 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
31_days2013-03-07 06:51 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2013-03-07 06:51 pm
[Mar. 7] [The Hunger Games] You Don't Say What You're Wishing For
Title: You Don't Say What You're Wishing For
Day/Theme: March 7, 2013 "prayer must never be answered"
Series: The Hunger Games
Character/Pairing: Mags & OCs
Rating: PG
Author's comment: For the record, a direction continuation from (Never was a) Smooth Talker
She agrees (I think she's flattered) and I drop down into her chair to watch as she swirls about the shimmering floor (the tiles are sort of opalescent) with Jack. They're a very Capitol-pretty pair. When they rejoin me, Apple is flushed, from exertion I think. She may not sit around all day, but she doesn't run or dance or swim of anything frequently either. She handles it gracefully. I surrender the seat back to her, although she probably would've let me keep it and commandeered another.
So I'm standing again and Jack is back to standing in front of me. There is an unspoken question on his smiling lips. Something like, "Maybe you changed your mind?" But he just looks at me and keeps on smiling until I feel awkward again, the calm brought from watching him at a distant eroded.
"The dancing in Four is kind of different," I tell him, an explanation to a question he never asked.
"I'd like to see," he says. "The only time I've been to Four was on the Tour. That was kind of a long time ago now." He tips his head a bit to the side, remembering. When Jack Umber came to District 4, I must have been about six, but I don't remember it. I can only remember him on television. …the war wounds of the district were practically still smoldering. No one would've danced, even at a forced celebration. "…It's sort of pathetic, but the best thing I remember about Four was that no one threw anything at me there. Everyone was really quiet about their distaste for the situation."
He's done it again. I've been hooked by a story. This is it, isn't it? This is how strangers connect. The stories that they share. Stories are not how Jack won the Hunger Games, but they are the way he lived on after. "Do you remember anything else?" I ask. I've taken the bait, even as I see it for what it is.
"The smell of salt in the air. The sun shining on the water." He shakes his head. He looks nicer a bit tousled than perfectly coiffed and combed. …Or is it that I think that about everyone? "Nothing grand, I guess."
"I don't think the things I'm going to remember from my Tour will be anything grand either." And people were generally nice to me. …But the bad things, the hard things, they stick out in my memory. It's probably the same for Jack.
The band finishes playing one song. Another song begins. He's asking without asking again (or I read into his subtle shifts in expressions way too much).
"I'll dance," I say.
"With me?" he has to make sure. That he asks for this kind of clarification only intensifies my positive feelings toward him. The Capitol is not fond of asking permission (or it is only a meaningless token, where they ask, but don't care what you answer).
"Yes."
The closer I stand by him, the taller he seems to loom over me.
I have trouble finding the rhythm of this unknown music.
The song is fast.
Jack barely touches me- only my hand.
"The next song is a slow one," he can tell from the first few notes. What he means is, "Would you like to dance more? This one will be easier."
I agree to it, but slower dancing, in this kind of context, means more touching, and even though Jack doesn't act strange about it, I find myself feeling increasingly embarrassed. Looking Jack right in the eye would be too excruciating (like looking into the sun), but looking away and watching myself by watched would be even more horrific.
I take advantage of Jack's height and stare at his shirt. The way the light shines on the rippling fabric starts to make me think of water.
"You know, you don't have to think about what we're doing if you want to," Jack says, "You could tell me a story about yourself right now."
"A story?" Yes, I have understood something about this man already that goes down deep into his being. It makes me wonder…when he was a little boy, what kind of stories did people tell Jack Umber?
"Just a short one," he sort of shrugs.
"I can't think of one just like that," I admit, defeated, but distracted.
He's unphased though, as usual, and he turns his question around onto himself. "How about I tell you something else then? I'll tell you about this thing that's been on my mind lately."
This mood is easier. It meet his lively eyes.
"You see, I have this wish-"
It's not a calculated answer, it's what just immediately comes to my mind. "Stop," I shake my head, "You don't say what you're wishing for. If you do, then it will never come true."
Jack laughs. "You- you want my wish to come true?"
…And why wouldn't I?
He knows the song. He knows it's about to end. He dips me low and I resist the urge to flail around as someone else takes control of my center of gravity.
…Is it because we're victors? Is "I want to live," the only wish we can have answered? Because, like most people, as soon as my wish was granted, I only had more. "Jack," I say without even knowing what I want to follow it, as he helps me right myself, "I-"
"You," he takes over for me, "Are a good dancer, and even better when you don't think too much about dancing. …But now," someone or something else catches his eye across the room, "It is time for me to let you go and allow other people to enjoy your fine company."
"Oh. Okay."
"Have a lovely night," he nods to me, turns, and leaves.
Day/Theme: March 7, 2013 "prayer must never be answered"
Series: The Hunger Games
Character/Pairing: Mags & OCs
Rating: PG
Author's comment: For the record, a direction continuation from (Never was a) Smooth Talker
She agrees (I think she's flattered) and I drop down into her chair to watch as she swirls about the shimmering floor (the tiles are sort of opalescent) with Jack. They're a very Capitol-pretty pair. When they rejoin me, Apple is flushed, from exertion I think. She may not sit around all day, but she doesn't run or dance or swim of anything frequently either. She handles it gracefully. I surrender the seat back to her, although she probably would've let me keep it and commandeered another.
So I'm standing again and Jack is back to standing in front of me. There is an unspoken question on his smiling lips. Something like, "Maybe you changed your mind?" But he just looks at me and keeps on smiling until I feel awkward again, the calm brought from watching him at a distant eroded.
"The dancing in Four is kind of different," I tell him, an explanation to a question he never asked.
"I'd like to see," he says. "The only time I've been to Four was on the Tour. That was kind of a long time ago now." He tips his head a bit to the side, remembering. When Jack Umber came to District 4, I must have been about six, but I don't remember it. I can only remember him on television. …the war wounds of the district were practically still smoldering. No one would've danced, even at a forced celebration. "…It's sort of pathetic, but the best thing I remember about Four was that no one threw anything at me there. Everyone was really quiet about their distaste for the situation."
He's done it again. I've been hooked by a story. This is it, isn't it? This is how strangers connect. The stories that they share. Stories are not how Jack won the Hunger Games, but they are the way he lived on after. "Do you remember anything else?" I ask. I've taken the bait, even as I see it for what it is.
"The smell of salt in the air. The sun shining on the water." He shakes his head. He looks nicer a bit tousled than perfectly coiffed and combed. …Or is it that I think that about everyone? "Nothing grand, I guess."
"I don't think the things I'm going to remember from my Tour will be anything grand either." And people were generally nice to me. …But the bad things, the hard things, they stick out in my memory. It's probably the same for Jack.
The band finishes playing one song. Another song begins. He's asking without asking again (or I read into his subtle shifts in expressions way too much).
"I'll dance," I say.
"With me?" he has to make sure. That he asks for this kind of clarification only intensifies my positive feelings toward him. The Capitol is not fond of asking permission (or it is only a meaningless token, where they ask, but don't care what you answer).
"Yes."
The closer I stand by him, the taller he seems to loom over me.
I have trouble finding the rhythm of this unknown music.
The song is fast.
Jack barely touches me- only my hand.
"The next song is a slow one," he can tell from the first few notes. What he means is, "Would you like to dance more? This one will be easier."
I agree to it, but slower dancing, in this kind of context, means more touching, and even though Jack doesn't act strange about it, I find myself feeling increasingly embarrassed. Looking Jack right in the eye would be too excruciating (like looking into the sun), but looking away and watching myself by watched would be even more horrific.
I take advantage of Jack's height and stare at his shirt. The way the light shines on the rippling fabric starts to make me think of water.
"You know, you don't have to think about what we're doing if you want to," Jack says, "You could tell me a story about yourself right now."
"A story?" Yes, I have understood something about this man already that goes down deep into his being. It makes me wonder…when he was a little boy, what kind of stories did people tell Jack Umber?
"Just a short one," he sort of shrugs.
"I can't think of one just like that," I admit, defeated, but distracted.
He's unphased though, as usual, and he turns his question around onto himself. "How about I tell you something else then? I'll tell you about this thing that's been on my mind lately."
This mood is easier. It meet his lively eyes.
"You see, I have this wish-"
It's not a calculated answer, it's what just immediately comes to my mind. "Stop," I shake my head, "You don't say what you're wishing for. If you do, then it will never come true."
Jack laughs. "You- you want my wish to come true?"
…And why wouldn't I?
He knows the song. He knows it's about to end. He dips me low and I resist the urge to flail around as someone else takes control of my center of gravity.
…Is it because we're victors? Is "I want to live," the only wish we can have answered? Because, like most people, as soon as my wish was granted, I only had more. "Jack," I say without even knowing what I want to follow it, as he helps me right myself, "I-"
"You," he takes over for me, "Are a good dancer, and even better when you don't think too much about dancing. …But now," someone or something else catches his eye across the room, "It is time for me to let you go and allow other people to enjoy your fine company."
"Oh. Okay."
"Have a lovely night," he nods to me, turns, and leaves.