thomson's gazelles / perry&larissa

Some things, Larissa supposed, were just inevitable. Dogs would chase cats, electricity would flicker, bugs would eat the plants. And like would call to like.

They were, in many ways, exact opposites, now that she was considering it. By appearance alone, Larissa was long-limbed and blonde and the girl from Two, Peregrine, was shorter with darker features. Larissa was from One, the Capitol's current darling and most consistently beloved district. Peregrine was from the former favorite, fallen from fame all the way down into infamy. Though, Larissa was sure that the recent industry change really only impacted those whose lives were already getting the brunt of it, anyway. If something like that had ever happened in One, it wouldn't be the families like the Le Roux's who'd suffer first.

But that was just it: they were also so alike in so many other ways. Larissa hated how akin to career she had to be in order to succeed. She hated that it was such an easy- and fair- assumption for one to make about her, and that she had to lie and say they were right when they guessed as much. But there she was, wasn't she, making the same assumptions about this girl all before she'd even sat down next to Larissa.

"D'you think he knows that buzzcut with that jaw shape makes him look like a limp dick?"

Before she could stop it, a huff of laughter escaped her. She didn't know what she'd been expecting, but it wasn't that. Maybe some weirdly charged edgy conversation in which they both traded vague insights or something. She liked this better, though- and for what it was worth, she happened to agree with the girl from Two: his head really did look unfortunately phallic.

"I mean, maybe if you’re into that. Thoughts and prayers," she said through a scrunched nose. To be fair, at least in Larissa's experience everything cosmetic was on purpose in the Capitol. Whether it was as it was intended to be or not tended to vary, but she sincerely hoped it wasn't this guy's outward desire to walk around looking like- well, as Peregrine had already so eloquently phrased it: a limp dick.

"Hard to say, he also calls himself a trainer but, uh-" Some poor lower district kid was making sad attempts at punching a sandbag despite the man's continued feedback, "he's only showing that kid how to break their own wrists with that form."

She sat up as a thought struck her.

"Or maybe he's just dressing for the part."

She'd never met a trainer who wasn't a dick. At least this one advertised it openly so it wasn't a shock later.