[ He recognizes the number. Not well enough to put it to a face, but that's quickly resolved when he hears the voice.
He isn't asleep. Peeta's been sitting in his room for the past few hours, quiet; he'd spent most of the evening trying to paint before giving up on that, and now he's just got a mess to show for it. He's sitting on the floor, back to his bed, and he considers ignoring the call for a few heavy seconds before finally answering. ]
Yes. [ Katniss's dad died in the mines. Delly was his friend. He was in the 74th games. There's a handful of things that are true, things that he's confirmed. But the rest— ] I remember a lot of things. That doesn't make them real.
[ Another pause, short, and the question that follows is more curious than suspicious. ] Why?
[ There's a delay in return. He'd known before he made the call that a conversation like this would only allow for so much discretion, but he still has secrets to keep, and so his words are delicately chosen. ]
I wondered if it helped.
[ Helped. Like Anderson wants to. Like Xavier did too, once, but not anymore. A rush of air comes across the transmission, an exhale loosed over a tight-lipped smile. ]
Or if it made any difference at all, to know what you used to be.
Edited (wait i have an even sadder icon) 2014-08-18 10:12 (UTC)
Sometimes. [ He has no idea what he used to be. The realization’s been slow, reluctantly holding on to the few things that he thought made sense. But the second he left the Capitol, those things had started to erode; they didn’t hold up in the face of everyone else’s words.
You’re a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. Everything he knows about what he used to be is second-hand. ]
It doesn’t make it easier. All it does is show you how much you’ve changed.
[ That's an answer. It's no comfort, but it rings all the more honest for it. He's silent a moment, considering. ]
Do you even know that you have? Changed, I mean. If you don't know what's real.
[ That's the problem, isn't it? The one that crawls into his skin in these empty hours. But his voice is even, feeling out the shape of this uncertainty. How can he know anything for sure? ]
Maybe you always were this person, or that one — or nobody at all.
I don't... [ He trails off, uncertain, voice just slightly agitated. ] I've changed. I'm not the same person.
[ Even if everyone else's word wasn't good enough, the footage from the games might be. Whether it's because of the Capitol or Katniss's betrayal, he isn't the same. It's the last comment that hits a nerve, though, and Peeta's voice comes back stronger for it, more defensive. ]
I'm still me. I've always been me. They can't take that away.
[ One-eighty from his initial reply. Arguing with himself isn't new, though, so the discrepancy doesn't register. ]
[ Agitation breeds agitation in turn. He realizes his misstep too late, that there's a difference between them he hadn't anticipated, although it's not a bad one, necessarily. There's a shifting of cloth, the muffled click of a metal fidget.
Is there any of him left? It felt like there was once, a small, skittish something behind his ribs, but not tonight. Tonight his breath comes in heavy half-incredulous exhale through his nose. ]
[ The edge to the comment doesn't go unnoticed, and the words ring false — he doesn't feel stronger. There's a long pause, voice coming back tense, more weary than anxious. ]
I guess that'd depend on who you ask. They all think I'm a mutt. That the Capitol turned me into a weapon.
[ Katniss said. Others, behind his back. It'd been easy to reject initially, fueled by anger and betrayal, but reality's slowly wearing him down. The more he hears from Johanna, the more run-ins he has with other passengers, the way they pick Katniss over him despite having no context. ]
[ The games already turned him into a weapon, more so than he'd ever wanted to be. This is different — more precise, calculated. The surge of instinctive fear and anger he feels whenever he sees Katniss, the feeling of his hands on her throat. ]
I don't know.
[ His voice is thoughtful. Not grim, but there's no sense of certainty or optimism to it. ]
I think they know more than I do. [ It's an admission he's been reluctant to make, and it just sounds tired. After a beat, he regains some focus. ] Is that what they did to you?
[ Peeta has no idea who "they" is. But he's seen the arm, gets that these questions aren't aimless, and there's a pointed interest to the question, too direct for curiosity. ]
I'm just a soldier. [ –Is a deflection, a hollow, defensive answer when Peeta has offered so much without question.
It doesn't sit well. His silence after is tense and heavy. Hesitant. Then: ] Pretty sure I was a weapon already.
[ He has scars he doesn't remember getting, shrapnel and bullet wounds that are there in his earliest memories. In the dark, he remembers tracing their shape with cold metal fingertips. He wasn't whole then, either. ]
They just— [ he thinks of Natalia, of the taser sharp in his side — Do you realize you were just yelling at Mikhail and Andre in English? He shifts, cracking his neck. ] They just got rid of everything else. The distractions.
[ The deflection isn't surprising, and Peeta doesn't bristle at it, just smiles lightly to himself when Bucky finally comes back with a more honest answer. ]
So what do you think is worse? Losing everything, or having it replaced with something new?
[ It's even, as far as he's concerned, though he doesn't say as much just yet. Having everything taken away seems like it'd be simpler — but even if nothing makes sense, at least he still has pieces of himself. It's figuring out which pieces are real that's the problem. ]
Losing everything is easier. [ Exhaled, his voice bitter and briefly breaking. ] That's the point of wiping you.
[ You don't ask a person to do the things he's done and live with them. You don't ask them to stand who they were up against who they are now. You don't ask them to be a person afterward. There are nights he wishes he didn't have to. But some, too, where he just wishes he could tell what's real. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
voice; private yoooo
He isn't asleep. Peeta's been sitting in his room for the past few hours, quiet; he'd spent most of the evening trying to paint before giving up on that, and now he's just got a mess to show for it. He's sitting on the floor, back to his bed, and he considers ignoring the call for a few heavy seconds before finally answering. ]
Yes. [ Katniss's dad died in the mines. Delly was his friend. He was in the 74th games. There's a handful of things that are true, things that he's confirmed. But the rest— ] I remember a lot of things. That doesn't make them real.
[ Another pause, short, and the question that follows is more curious than suspicious. ] Why?
voice; private
I wondered if it helped.
[ Helped. Like Anderson wants to. Like Xavier did too, once, but not anymore. A rush of air comes across the transmission, an exhale loosed over a tight-lipped smile. ]
Or if it made any difference at all, to know what you used to be.
voice; private
You’re a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. Everything he knows about what he used to be is second-hand. ]
It doesn’t make it easier. All it does is show you how much you’ve changed.
voice; private
Do you even know that you have? Changed, I mean. If you don't know what's real.
[ That's the problem, isn't it? The one that crawls into his skin in these empty hours. But his voice is even, feeling out the shape of this uncertainty. How can he know anything for sure? ]
Maybe you always were this person, or that one — or nobody at all.
voice; private
[ Even if everyone else's word wasn't good enough, the footage from the games might be. Whether it's because of the Capitol or Katniss's betrayal, he isn't the same. It's the last comment that hits a nerve, though, and Peeta's voice comes back stronger for it, more defensive. ]
I'm still me. I've always been me. They can't take that away.
[ One-eighty from his initial reply. Arguing with himself isn't new, though, so the discrepancy doesn't register. ]
voice; private
Is there any of him left? It felt like there was once, a small, skittish something behind his ribs, but not tonight. Tonight his breath comes in heavy half-incredulous exhale through his nose. ]
You must be a hell of a lot stronger than me.
voice; private
I guess that'd depend on who you ask. They all think I'm a mutt. That the Capitol turned me into a weapon.
[ Katniss said. Others, behind his back. It'd been easy to reject initially, fueled by anger and betrayal, but reality's slowly wearing him down. The more he hears from Johanna, the more run-ins he has with other passengers, the way they pick Katniss over him despite having no context. ]
voice; private
What do you think?
no subject
I don't know.
[ His voice is thoughtful. Not grim, but there's no sense of certainty or optimism to it. ]
I think they know more than I do. [ It's an admission he's been reluctant to make, and it just sounds tired. After a beat, he regains some focus. ] Is that what they did to you?
[ Peeta has no idea who "they" is. But he's seen the arm, gets that these questions aren't aimless, and there's a pointed interest to the question, too direct for curiosity. ]
no subject
It doesn't sit well. His silence after is tense and heavy. Hesitant. Then: ] Pretty sure I was a weapon already.
[ He has scars he doesn't remember getting, shrapnel and bullet wounds that are there in his earliest memories. In the dark, he remembers tracing their shape with cold metal fingertips. He wasn't whole then, either. ]
They just— [ he thinks of Natalia, of the taser sharp in his side — Do you realize you were just yelling at Mikhail and Andre in English? He shifts, cracking his neck. ] They just got rid of everything else. The distractions.
[ Me. ]
no subject
So what do you think is worse? Losing everything, or having it replaced with something new?
[ It's even, as far as he's concerned, though he doesn't say as much just yet. Having everything taken away seems like it'd be simpler — but even if nothing makes sense, at least he still has pieces of himself. It's figuring out which pieces are real that's the problem. ]
no subject
[ You don't ask a person to do the things he's done and live with them. You don't ask them to stand who they were up against who they are now. You don't ask them to be a person afterward. There are nights he wishes he didn't have to. But some, too, where he just wishes he could tell what's real. ]
There isn't any better.