katniss everdeen (
burnwithus) wrote2011-09-23 01:59 am
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(every fire is a lesson learned)
She finds herself singing lately, more often than not, and Katniss doesn't really know why. It feels as if suddenly, everything comes rushing back to her. All of the songs her father taught her; old ballads and the songs coal miners used to sing. Love songs and those that tell stories alike. She sits and sings, hands busy with the knot of a snare or the sharpened point of an arrow while she does. And if asked, Katniss could honestly not say why this was. She'd shunned music entirely after her father's death, dismissing it to the point where she was half-convinced that she'd never loved it at all.
But some things always come back, even if they're not entirely welcome.
Katniss sits there for hours, running through songs - she likes the ones that tell stories the most.
The morbid ones remind her of 'The Hanging Tree', and how oddly she was drawn to it, and not only because it was forbidden. This story, at least, has a happier ending than the others she'd sung that morning with the backdrop of the waves accompanying her. The good thing about the beach was that it was so vast, and it wasn't hard to find a secluded area here or there.
When she'd first arrived, her voice had been raspy and terrible. Destroyed from inhaling too much smoke, from screaming too loudly and too often. But like the redness of the burn scars, even that's faded.
There's a metaphor to be found there, she supposes, but she never liked those anyways.
But some things always come back, even if they're not entirely welcome.
Katniss sits there for hours, running through songs - she likes the ones that tell stories the most.
There was a youth, a cruel youth,
Who lived beside the sea,
Six little maidens he drowned there
By the lonely willow tree.
The morbid ones remind her of 'The Hanging Tree', and how oddly she was drawn to it, and not only because it was forbidden. This story, at least, has a happier ending than the others she'd sung that morning with the backdrop of the waves accompanying her. The good thing about the beach was that it was so vast, and it wasn't hard to find a secluded area here or there.
He turned around, that false young man,
And faced the the willow tree,
And seizing him boldly in both her arms,
She threw him into the sea.
Lie there, lie there, you false young man,
Lie there, lie there, cried she,
Six little maidens you've drowned here,
Now keep them company.
He sank beneath the icy waves,
He sank down into the sea,
And no living thing wept a tear for him,
Save the lonely willow tree.
When she'd first arrived, her voice had been raspy and terrible. Destroyed from inhaling too much smoke, from screaming too loudly and too often. But like the redness of the burn scars, even that's faded.
There's a metaphor to be found there, she supposes, but she never liked those anyways.
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Still, there are times when reality hits one square in the face, making it impossible to look away. This might be one of those times. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, finding the sun a little relentless. The beach, however, provides a nice breeze that takes the edge of the heat off.
It also comes with, apparently, a voice.
He's within a few feet of her when he finally speaks up, as soon as the last note of hers has faded into silence. "Nicely sung. Though the choice of song's a bit... morbid," he remarks, tone soft and considering.
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She'd come out here on purpose, mostly because conversation on a good day was exhausting. Katniss shrugs the critique of being 'morbid' off, the motion of her hands that were skinning the rabbit stilling. "It probably really happened, and they made a song out of it,"
It wouldn't surprise her.
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"I'm more inclined to think that it's probably a metaphor, but god only knows we've had plenty of bloodshed among our race over the years," Kurt exhales softly, before walking closer, frowning at the sand before he attempts to lower himself down without getting too much stuck to his clothes. "But even if there really was this kind of hanging tree, that doesn't make the choice of song any less morbid, does it? It's a shame to use a nice voice on that."
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"I guess," she says dubiously, not quite seeing the point where 'morbid' meant bad. "Would you rather want sappy love songs?" she knows a few of those. As a child, Katniss had loved them. Before everything went wrong.
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Hoping that he isn't overstepping boundaries, Kurt slowly lowers himself to the ground next to the girl, eying her thoughtfully. With a bit of work, she could easily be among the most beautiful of girls on the island.
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He's watching her, though. It's unnerving. Katniss has stayed away from mirrors during her time on the island, which had been easy enough. But she still remembers how her skin looks, and the extended looks are starting to make her cranky.
"I know it's bad, but you can always just look away," she snaps, tightly wound and not knowing why. It's not like any of this matters, anyways. All thoughts of songs and ballads are gone - so much for the morning's placid mood. All things considered, Katniss knows that she should be used to the stares, but still.
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He can be glad for that.
"And if you're talking about the scars, I've seen what true ugliness looks like, and it's not something that reveals itself on your skin."
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She appreciates the honesty, anyways.
"Sorry," Katniss mutters, and it's apologetic enough, if quiet and hoarse. This isn't something that normally happens, and it's an indication of the changes that are slowly being made in her mind.
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The scars outweigh his desire. Maybe that's a problem.
"Why apologize? Heck, sister, I'm not going to blame you for responding to how dozens of people must have already responded. We make assumptions for a reason, after all," he replies, as lightly as he can, biting down on his lip soon after.
"It bothers you, doesn't it?"
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"I don't care how I look, anyways. Those things are stupid," it's deeper than that. The scars are a visible reminder etched on her skin - that's what this is about. The ugliness of them doesn't bother a girl who never considered herself pretty in the first place.
But Katniss would rather talk about anything else right now. So she roots around inside of that empty head of hers, trying to figure it out.
"...Who's Fred Astaire?"
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Feeling uneasy at the sight of her blank expression, the taut line of her lips, Kurt takes a small breath and continues on.
"As for Fred Astaire... we might be better off heading into the Compound and finding a reel. I don't think I'm at the point where I could do him justice. But suffice to say, he mastered the art of dance and song, makes it look like it's the only thing in life that makes him happy."
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"Do you sing?"
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"You don't know that," he says first, before trying to answer her question. "Look, I will fully grant that Fred Astaire isn't everyone's cup of tea, crazy though that may seem to me, being the fan that I am. Just like your original choice of song strikes me as incredibly depressing. But that doesn't mean you should just shrug away the idea that watching someone have fun just with his voice, just with what he can do in a pair of good shoes. You might find yourself surprised, and it's worth a shot. The most you lose is a couple of hours."
Pausing, he sighs, tilting his head. "But yes, I sing. A lot. So I'm kind of defensive when it comes to that, and the theater."
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Katniss isn't as good of a liar as she thinks she is, though. And there's something in his demeanor that reminds her of Cinna, who had passion, too. Cinna, who'd had an eye for beauty in the most unexpected places. Kurt even dressed like her old stylist, and she thinks that maybe it's these unusual associations that draw her to certain people, like that girl who reminds her so much of prim. It's so stupid, and sentimental, but she can't help it.
"What were you suggesting?" her shoulders slump for a moment, body language less tense for that single second. Stupid, the practical side of her dictates.
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The only problem being whether or not there's any way to change that, whether or not he can help to raise her happiness and expectations alike, just with a little bit of work. A little exposure to the arts.
"I'm suggesting that we take some time to go over some of the most famous and beloved singers and dancers over history. See if there's anything that touches you. Because, believe me, and I have met someone who fits this description, but someone without any interest at all in music wouldn't be humming in their spare time. Period," Kurt notes with an arch of his brow. "If the jukebox complies, that could be a start. If not, the Hub has a pretty awesome karaoke machine, great selection."
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Questioning it's the real progress here.
"Why don't you sing, then?" he's all caught up in trying to get her to choose something cheerier (better, in his opinion, when she liked her songs just fine) and this was the response. "You could show me. Whoever those people are."
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Or perhaps he's reading too much into it. At least, though, he can't picture anyone at McKinley or Dalton being so invested.
"If it's karaoke," he continues with a tilt of his head, "then you won't really be seeing who the people are, because the idea is that I sing in their stead. It's fun, but not quite as educational. So whichever you want to go with is... largely up to you. If you just want to hear the song, I could even manage it a cappella, probably. If it's in my range."
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She doesn't think about that.
"Or you could just sing it here," Katniss quips, totally missing the point and not even knowing it. "And not bother with the acapella thing," she shrugs directly after, though. Important to make sure that she's not too invested in this. Otherwise, he'd know that she cared.
The truth is, Katniss has never met anyone else who could sing, who loved it, other than her father. And this is momentous.
"If you want. I don't really care."
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Exhaling briefly, he clears his throat, then starts to sing.
"There was a time when men were kind, and their voices were soft, and their words inviting," he begins, barely above a whisper, glancing over at Katniss, drawing more strength from within. "There was a time when love was blind, and the world was a song, and the song was exciting. There was a time when it all went wrong..."
Shaking his head, he presses on, voice growing more insistent.
"I dreamed a dream in time gone by, when hope was high and life, worth living. I dreamed that love would never die, I dreamed that God would be forgiving. Then I was young and unafraid, and dreams were made and used and wasted. There was no ransom to be paid, no song unsung, no wine untasted."
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But the song is sad. That much she can discern from the soft, wistful tone of it and the words that she can make out. It tugs at something in her, and that's frightening - Katniss blames it on the music, and that's precisely why she's avoided it for so long.
She waits until his song has drifted into silence - she waits a few very long moments.
"I thought you told me to sing happy songs," Katniss mutters, knees drawn up to her chest, chin resting on the jutting bones there.
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"It's happier than you might think," Kurt replies, and the smile on his lips is strained, not forced as much as it is trying to encourage where hope runs thin. "It's... realistic. Tells us not to float away in dreams that simply don't exist, but I wouldn't say that it's completely unhappy. We learn what we can expect from life, and we chase after that. The sooner we know our absolute limits, the better, the more we're able to nudge lightly at the ceiling rather than running into it and falling."
His smile widens just a touch. "If you catch my drift."
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"...You're a good singer," she says it because she has nothing constructive to say on the subject of life and expectations. Because Katniss is grasping for something bright, despite her innately pessimistic nature. "For what it's worth."
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But it's compliments like these, from people who haven't shown any inclination for music, or dance, or fashion— somehow, these hit him closest to the chest. Isn't all that he's been working on been in the effort to reach these people, after all?
You step on a stage to reach a wider audience.
Tonight, he feels like maybe he has.
"It's what I want to do, eventually. Professionally. One of those dreams set for the distant future."
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The distant future. It sounds strange, because she isn't from a world in which people chose their careers, or even one in which there was any variety at all. In District 12, there were either the mines or becoming a merchant, and you had to be lucky enough to be born into that. There were exceptions, of course. There was the Hob. Some people sold themselves. Some people worked for the Peacekeepers, or for the Mayor or some of the other rich citizens of 12. But all in all, there were no dreams. Especially not towards anything as frivolous as music. Maybe in the Capitol, with all of their celebrities.
But Kurt doesn't seem like that type of person. Maybe on the outside. He might dress ridiculously, but he didn't poke at her like some specimen like most of them did.
Ultimately, though, Katniss' gauge is basically that once, when she might have felt things like this, she wouldn't want him dead. Which is a good scale on how he measures up.
"Good luck with that."
She half means it, too.
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Here, though, things are supposed to be possible. Here, they're supposed to get a blank slate. So Kurt peers over at her, the luck that she's sent his way, and decides that he doesn't need it. Not half as much as she does.
"I'm hoping that I won't require luck to get where I'm going, but..." Kurt smiles thinly, just for a fraction of a second. "Maybe you should keep the luck for yourself. And learn to dream a little."