(every fire is a lesson learned)

[burnwithus]

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.

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.

Comments

[burnwithus.livejournal.com]

He sounds a little like a girl. That's the first thing Katniss thinks, but she's also drawn to it somehow. There's something about his voice that she can't quite pin down, something that soothes her - clear and high and sounding nothing like her father's but reminding her of him all the same.

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.

[likesboys]

In a way, he understands the slight protest in her words, not so much accusatory as simply stating a fact, dwelling perhaps a second too long. The song itself isn't the happiest, but Kurt thinks that such a song wouldn't suit her, just now. He isn't about to sing of endless dances and revelry when it feels very much like the girl sitting in front of him has lost all hope. One doesn't inspire its return with jewels and glittering gold. One strikes a single spark. A single flame.

"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."

[burnwithus.livejournal.com]

For all of Kurt's rational points, Katniss doesn't think they do her much good because despite all of the nuances of her time on the island, she still expects nothing good from life. Things like the sunsets, the food she eats and the trees that surround her are exceptions. Anomalies. Unable to tip the balance of scales in which the default is grief and terror. Maybe one day, but that is not today. She nods anyways, because in spite of their differences, she does understand.

"...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."

[likesboys]

"Thanks," he replies quietly, and somehow, the compliment means a great deal. Of course, all compliments are colored differently. Those that come from people who toss compliments left and right aren't necessarily meaningless. Sometimes, that kind of fervor is inspiring in of itself, learning that there's some good to be found in almost anything. Compliments from close friends and family mean all the more for the unconditional love that they make a show of. Compliments from experts, from professionals, they leave his ego boosted.

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."

[burnwithus.livejournal.com]

"Right."

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.

[likesboys]

There's something in it, the worn look of her expression, that has Kurt suspecting that she's never really been able to dream. That her life's caged her in, dusty and worn, chaining her to a reality that doesn't leave enough space to stand, to imagine, to run wild with possibility. Her personality might put as much of a damper on it as anything else, but at the end of the day, personalities are always shaped by situations. Kurt knows that he wouldn't be half as bold as he is now, half as proud of who he is, were it not for the acceptance of his father, the love of his friends. He wouldn't be capable of even thinking about Broadway without his father supporting him over time.

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."