Clove (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shenevermisses) wrote2012-05-15 11:52 pm
shenevermisses) wrote2012-05-15 11:52 pm
2nd Throw - [ action ]
[A party on Friday constituted a shopping trip on Wednesday. Normally, Clove was not keen on social functions. She avoided the main core during things like that at the Academy. Here, though, she took it to be part of the show. As a "New Feather," she had to try and forge alliances. She had a few prospects, she felt.
The Roman-- Roan, but that was close enough for Clove-- theme called for an effort to find her Tribute Parade costume.
For three hours that morning, Clove browsed the clothing store. When she found something she liked and that looked like it would fit, she put it in the canvas bag she carried. She needed a bit more of a wardrobe, after all. It was sort of fun, looking through everything.
Finally, she found it. The black pants and the layered gold shirt. Sleeveless and close-fitted, tailored to show her off, accent the delicate feminine frame next to the tall and broad figure Cato presented.
Clove took it quietly. Unlike everything else, this outfit did not go into her bag. She carried it to a changing stall and shut herself in. She stripped, put on the pants, shirt, and her boots. She even tied her hair up in a poor imitation of her parade style and stepped out to inspect herself in the mirror, smiling faintly with anticipation.
Her smile faded almost instantly. There was a small gap between her waistband and her skin, and the pants were almost too long. Her shirt hung loose, rather than hugging her chest. She reached up, under the shirt, and felt her side. They weren't horribly prominent, but she could feel her ribs. Not surprising-- she'd had little to eat that last run in the Arena. Of course she'd lost weight.
Clove looked at her reflection. She was a shadow of the girl who had ridden in a chariot with Cato. She felt near her temple, trying to find the dent in her skull. It wasn't there. Maybe she'd feel better if it was. Maybe a physical reminder of that injury would make her feel like everything was real again.
She touched the loose ends of the shirt, felt the layers of fabric. Her eyes stung. Something wet fell down her cheeks. ...She was crying. For the first time in a long, long time, she was crying. Clove drew herself up, willing the tears to stop. Then she bent over... sank down into a crouch as her chest shuddered with a painful sob.]
The Roman-- Roan, but that was close enough for Clove-- theme called for an effort to find her Tribute Parade costume.
For three hours that morning, Clove browsed the clothing store. When she found something she liked and that looked like it would fit, she put it in the canvas bag she carried. She needed a bit more of a wardrobe, after all. It was sort of fun, looking through everything.
Finally, she found it. The black pants and the layered gold shirt. Sleeveless and close-fitted, tailored to show her off, accent the delicate feminine frame next to the tall and broad figure Cato presented.
Clove took it quietly. Unlike everything else, this outfit did not go into her bag. She carried it to a changing stall and shut herself in. She stripped, put on the pants, shirt, and her boots. She even tied her hair up in a poor imitation of her parade style and stepped out to inspect herself in the mirror, smiling faintly with anticipation.
Her smile faded almost instantly. There was a small gap between her waistband and her skin, and the pants were almost too long. Her shirt hung loose, rather than hugging her chest. She reached up, under the shirt, and felt her side. They weren't horribly prominent, but she could feel her ribs. Not surprising-- she'd had little to eat that last run in the Arena. Of course she'd lost weight.
Clove looked at her reflection. She was a shadow of the girl who had ridden in a chariot with Cato. She felt near her temple, trying to find the dent in her skull. It wasn't there. Maybe she'd feel better if it was. Maybe a physical reminder of that injury would make her feel like everything was real again.
She touched the loose ends of the shirt, felt the layers of fabric. Her eyes stung. Something wet fell down her cheeks. ...She was crying. For the first time in a long, long time, she was crying. Clove drew herself up, willing the tears to stop. Then she bent over... sank down into a crouch as her chest shuddered with a painful sob.]
no subject
[Hindsight's perfect, though, and that's what makes Clove sure she shouldn't have even asked.
She wouldn't have asked one of her instructors at the Academy. And if she wouldn't say it to them, she shouldn't say it to Sally. At least, that's the most practical solution to adopt.
Different subject. That's best.]
I... Thank you. Again. For just... for helping. You really did.
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I'm glad I helped. I really am. And don't be sorry - please. You can talk to me about whatever you want, okay?
no subject
[She isn't good with actual gratitude. Hasn't been shown enough she can really be grateful for. Usually she's just taught what she needs to survive.
So she's doing her best.]
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No problem. You're all right, then?
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I am. Now. Thanks.
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Happy to hear it.
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[She wouldn't waste Sally's time again with stupid problems like this... but it would be nice to have a woman older than her to talk to sometimes.]
no subject
[In the interest of preventing more breakdowns and so on. Besides, Clove seems like a nice kid, in spite of...everything.]