pictures worth dying for {zori}

Silence was a virtue Weaver knew little about. At home everything was always so loud with people chatting amongst themselves, and the trains constantly rolling in and out of the train station with the crops harvested for the day. Children pranced with joy as they climbed down from the trees greeting their parents. Weaver remembered the days when he was young enough to run from the trees after picking the fruits and his parents stood at the bottom waiting for him and his brothers. It was those days that he missed. His mother and father passed away, and Weaver hasn't been the same since. But this wasn't about them.

"You know, one of the best things you can do is learn how to hide what you don't want seen." Weaver lifted his gaze from the table spotting the kid from district two brave enough to volunteer for the massive brute of a man standing on the stage. He wanted to turn away and pretend he didn't hear him because this kid wasn't a friend. Nobody here was his friend, yet Weaver needed the help he could get. He craned his neck watching the boy in front of him and listened to every word he said taking it all in. For many years Weaver tried to hide himself. He tried to hide the emotions he felt on a daily basis. "You might not want to give up on this so easily, Eleven. It might just save your life."

With a soft shrug of the shoulders, Weaver sighed. Surely this kid realized he was going to die, and nobody could stop him because President Snow wanted him dead. The gamemakers would make sure it happened in order to survive. Yet Weaver Rhodes wasn't a quitter. He just didn't know what to do right now in his current situation. "I'm sure there won't be any paint brushes or colored pencils in the arena." He exhaled wondering if this kid would take him seriously or not. "Besides, what good would hiding do? Can't hide all the time."

A small smile twisted across his face as the man in front of him spoke, and quickly threw his hand on his hip like a ballerina. Yet the words caught Weaver off guard, and cut Weaver straight through the heart. Yes, he was from district eleven. Yes he knew what was going to happen. Katelyn told him of the arena. She told him and Iona they would change, and that they had to change. Hiding was his entire life. Whether it was locking away emotions, or trying to hide the fears trying to burst from the dark into light. But hiding in the games wasn't much of anything, and besides nobody knew if there would be anything to hide with; however, hiding could also be smart. People can survive that way as long as nobody notices them.

Back in district eleven, nothing was worth hiding over. Every single day he worked as hard as he possibly could in order to survive the brutality, and Weaver didn't want to starve to death. He didn't want his family to pay the price because he refused to work. Few people knew who he truly was, and now that he was sentenced to die, he didn't care. The Capitol was using him as a puppet, and he didn't like it, but he wasn't about to let some fourteen year old kid run over top of him.

Weaver turned watching as the boy placed his hand in a clump of ash, and he watched as he used his imagination and different types of colors to do nothing other than plaster himself in a fake makeup. He chuckled softly to himself wondering where he had gone wrong, yet when his eyes rest on the face of this kid, he realizes his first mistake was in not walking away - walking away was rude. He sighed before carefully making his way over to the kid in front of him, and he reached down and grabbed a clump of ash. Every fiber inside wanted him to throw it as hard as he could across the room because it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. His entire life was over, but maybe he could have some fun with it, or something.

With a shrug of his shoulders he smacked himself in the face with the clump of ash as hard as he could coughing as the soot flew into his nose. "Ouch." He muttered under his breath as he stared at himself in the mirror remembering what Kate had said. You will change. It ate away at him because he didn't want to change. But he paused as an interesting thought crossed his mind, and before he could stop it, the words fell off the tip of his tongue into the air around him. "It seems like you've done this a time or two."

It was awkward standing there watching as some boy from district two played while putting some sort of strange face on, yet Weaver found himself slightly intrigued and didn't move. He never thought he'd care so much, but his mind was locked in on what two was doing. A young volunteer much braver than Weaver would ever be stood like nothing was wrong. Perhaps it was because the kid from district two volunteered on his own free will whereas Weaver didn't have a choice. Either way, it was a distraction much needed.

He backed away slightly when the kid moved towards him holding another clump of ash in his hand, and he pursed his lips trying to hide everything inside. Yet when it came down to it, Weaver stood frozen in place as Heathcliff tried to put a streak or two on his face. War paint was fun, and in this very moment he was all about war. He was ready to turn the Capitol upside down.

His weight shifted uneasily as the kid picked up some berries. Weaver had every intention on running away because it was too uncomfortable right now. Sure hiding was great if you were small enough to hide, but Weaver wasn't a tiny rat in the midst of a flock of bulls. He stood out. Strength was on his side. Maybe hiding was the best option, but he knew the gamemakers would eventually throw him away just like they had done to Iain last year.

But the moment the kid stuck his fingers out pointing to his lips, Weaver raised his hands and retreated. He didn't want none of that stuff on his face, and he didn't want to think about the reaction Harbinger would give the moment he laid eyes on him. "Haven't you ever played pretend?"

Playing pretend was hard especially when his entire life was devoted to working so his family could survive. It came easier after Harbinger won the games, but Weaver didn't stop working. All his winnings still helped, and sure he wouldn't have to work another day in his life, but Weaver did. He worked for everything he owned leaving little time to play pretend. "Never had the time." He grumbled softly. "Not when every second was spent working, and at night sleeping to prepare for the next day. Some people have to work for what they receive while it appears others don't." He cocked his head to the side before lifting another clump of ash from the table. "And I sure don't want that stuff on my lips. Sorry." He exhaled before smacking himself in the face once more. Only this time he laughed.

Sometimes he wondered what it was like living in a plentiful district. Yeah, Weaver didn't have much in district eleven, but he enjoyed his life. Every single day he knew his place, and he knew his purpose, but now it was all gone. Since the reaping, he questioned his own existence wondering why he was brought into the world. Surely it wasn't just to make his brother hurt. Yet it felt like that. His name being called wasn't just a slap to his own face, it was a slap in the face for all the district eleven victors. A heavy sigh fell past his lips filling the air around him, and he realized he couldn't live in the past anymore. It was all about now.

Something was different about him, and Weaver wanted to know more, yet he refused to ask the questions because knowing someone on a personal level was a downfall when twenty-three have to die. The way he acted, and moved around. The way he loved to cover his face with soot and berries. Something was different, and Weaver admired him for his free spirited beliefs. It was like he didn't care what others thought of him, and it meant the world knowing that someone who volunteered for this mess still had a childish, happy go lucky side to him.

Part of Weaver wondered what Heathcliff was up to, and why he was helping someone who wasn't worthy of lifting his shoes from the ground. "What sort of work did you do?" The question was a punch to the gut, but he knew nothing was meant by it. Yet his mind was frantic for only a moment trying to put the reality together because it was something he may never do again. "I worked in the fields harvesting crops and fruits. Everyone did." He shrugged like it was no big deal, but it was his entire life. He spent every single penny he saved to build his life, and now it was crashing down around him.

"How long have you been playing pretend?" He asked hoping the subject would change as he was tired of talking about himself, and wanted to learn more.

What's the use? He asked himself over and over as the words buzzed through his mind. Getting to know someone on somewhat of a personal level wasn't what he had hoped for because the games were lingering right around the corner, and it would only make things much more difficult. But maybe if he made enough acquaintances, and enough mental notes, Weaver would find the strength inside to prevail.

Every single word Heathcliff said etched into the back of his mind. It was a nice feeling to learn about the strengths and weaknesses of others - Weaver wouldn't be surprised if two hid in the walls of the arena waiting for someone to walk by.

He blinked a couple times while the kid answered, and it wasn't the answer Weaver wanted to hear, but it offered enough insight on Heathcliff's life. Yet it never answered why he volunteered. Why he ran forward in place of a huge massive career. Those questions burned through his mind, and he wanted to ask, but even a dumb, ignorant person knew when to stop. Weaver always knew more than he pretended, and this was the perfect way to gain the insight needed. Yet he wasn't sure what good this information would do except cause him to be on the look out when he went around every single twist and turn in the arena.

"I don't know. District two was enough about being what you were supposed to be, playing pretend becomes a part of who you really are."

Never in his entire life would he throw some sort of outfit on just to play a role in some sort of work or art. Weaver wasn't about it. He wanted people to know who he really was. He wasn't just a strong, dumb eighteen year old from district eleven. So much more was hiding inside, and he wanted to let it out, but he didn't know how. The idea of sharing personal information with a tribute from district two only ate way at his mind knowing in a few short days time would turn and district partners would become the enemy.

"Sometimes when working, I'd like to think that I was like the birds flying in the sky without a worry in the world." He sighed softly. "Imagination can go along way, but I've never pretend to be someone else. Never thought of it."