between breaths [andros/gideon]

There's a comfort in being away from the Reaping, despite the lingering disappointment of another year spent preparing for a chance at greatness that has since come and gone. It's not the videos of past Games, nor the escort's detatched presentation, that keep him on edge on Reaping day.

No, it's all of the people.

When he was young, he was hyper-aware of people all around him, watching him, poking at him like some kind of project. Andros pushed enough of his own buttons that he didn't want anyone else to touch him. All on his own, he could find his limits. He didn't need Danos Detweiler scraping him with a nail he found outside to tell him he couldn't feel pain. That simple test had been done years before, long before Andros tried to see if he could feel a hot stove at all if he put his hand on it.

He couldn't.

Now that he's older, people don't press at his seams in the same way. No. Now that he's older, it's worse. People trying to make him smile, people trying to make him laugh, people trying to make him mad.

He can't feel it.

He's not supposed to. A long time ago, Andros came to terms with his purpose, that he was meant to fight and win show that it meant nothing to him. The broken bones and split skin would mean nothing, despite their real price. The nights filled with memories of broken bodies and crying faces would mean nothing.

There are days, though, that he has trouble settling back into that purpose. Curled on the beach, he stares out at the waves and thanks the skies above that the crowds have abated and scurried back to their homes to count their blessings. He is left blessedly alone and so he doesn't have to pretend.

His back loses its rigid straightness. His shoulders slump forward. He settles in a way he cannot let himself in public. Rolling his head, he hisses at the tell-tale crack of his neck and the sudden release of pressure that floods his system with relief.

It doesn't last long, not when he continues to roll his head a little farther to the side, narrow eyes heavy-lidded as they slide to a halt over a figure down the beach, tousled blonde hair obscuring his face. Every so often, he seems to glance in Andros's direction before looking back down again. He's intently focused on something in front of him, left hand working quickly on something... Andros is standing before he can fully come to the decision to do so, taking quick strides across the sand to approach the boy who is drawing in a notebook.

Bending quickly over the boy's kneeling figure, he snatches the book with a sharp motion, lifting it up to look at the sketch of himself that paints the page in stark contrast. With a heavy frown he tears the page from the binding before dropping the book into the sand carelessly. Andros grasps at the edges of the page before tearing it in neat strips, sectioning them off and tearing again until there is nothing left but little pieces for him to scatter atop the upturned notebook.