wip wip wip // Gio // tbh what am i even doing
Jul 18, 2015 23:57:13 GMT -5
Post by cosetty on Jul 18, 2015 23:57:13 GMT -5
»»»««« Giovanni Ryavec »»»«««
18
Odair
D11 --> Wanderer
18
Odair
D11 --> Wanderer
What they haven't taught me I have taught myself, and what I haven't taught myself,
I guess I'm just going to have to learn.
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I guess I'm just going to have to learn.
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As long as he can remember it has always been father and son in the Little White House, and the first rule was to not ask about the ghost who lived there.
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He wasn't always like this. After all, infants don't appear in the woods at birth; they go there afterwards.
He wasn’t always like this. So calloused, so tough-skinned, and bitter and bitter and bitter. There was a time he was smaller; just a smart boy to a poor man in District 11. He lived and learned eagerly, enthusiastically. Now? He’s still learning, but it’s just to ensure his heart keeps beating.
Sometimes, when the light dapples through the trees at just the right angle, he can’t help but remember the Little White House and the way light filtered through the dusty windows to land softly on the worn wooden floors. The images are tucked in the back corners of his brain. They surface unbidden.
It hurts to remember the boy, curious and soft and free. The irony twists his face, settles uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.
Free? To be free is to be ignorant.
He’s learned better.
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Giovanni is the spitting image of his father. His skin is paler, but it browns in the summer months so much that Gio could barely tell the difference. He'd always admired looking like his father; felt pride in growing into the image of the man he held in the highest of honors. Simon Ryavec could do no wrong in his sons eyes. Their features were similar as well, thick eyebrows and defined cheekbones, a straight nose and full lips. His hair is black, falling across his forehead in shiny ringlets. As a child it was left to grow and curl, tickling the back of his neck. As a teenager, however, he kept it shaved close to the scalp. Part of that was due to the regulations of the community home, part of it was due to the pain of looking in the mirror and seeing a boy that Gio felt no longer existed.
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Giovanni Ryavec is son of a farmer and a ghost. As long as he can remember it has always been father and son in the Little White House. His mother was a crinkled photograph and the empty space inside him always searching. His mother was the pitying looks, the quickly corrected language, the jealousy and curiosity that stung the back of his throat while watching other children and their mothers. A clever child, Giovanni learned it was easier to let it lie; easier not to ask about the third setting at the table; easier to think that he wanted for nothing. The little white house was home enough; Simon Ryavec was father and mother both.
As it turned out, at least part of those lessons didn’t need to be stubbornly faked; he really did want for nothing. Sure, he couldn’t afford enough food or new shoes every year, but he was too busy running across the district to realize it was time to eat a dinner that wasn’t there. Some would call him a careless child. Smart and curious, but wild, unrestrained, and focused on the wrong things. His father encouraged his exploring, knew he was learning things that the schools could never teach. His only condition was that Giovanni was home before sunset.
He enjoyed his adventures across the district, but there was nothing quite like coming back home. The Little White House offered a sense of peace and stability that he got nowhere else. It was warm and familiar, a place he knew so intimately that sometimes it was hard to separate it from his very being. He was the Little White House, ghosts and all.
Perhaps that’s why it hurt so much one blazing summer when it burned to the ground, taking Simon Ryavec with it. He was 13.
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Too smart for his own good, Giovanni grew into a calculating, controlled and adaptable man. He likes to think of himself as clever, as disciplined and resilient, distant and collected. In reality, he’s just angry. He’s angry and justified. He copes with his problems by repressing the hell out of them. He can’t deal with feelings that don’t exist in the first place, right? Yet, the anger is always there. The anger, fear, guilt—some things can’t be ignored away. Damn it if he isn’t going to try anyway.
Since leaving the district, Giovanni can’t even tell if he’s become brooding and reclusive simply because there are no other people out here. At least, none that he’s encountered yet.
??fears
more personality flaws
ok we get it he's fkin angry
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The only feature that he got from the ghost were his eyes. They were brown and green around the iris, a mix of color like earth, like growing and grounded; they were a bright blue around the edges, like sky, like rain and mountains in the distance, like cloudless. Sometimes when his father looked at them it was like he didn't see him at all. He never really noticed how unique they were, not even when old people would point it out. How else would a 7-year-old respond to 'your eyes are too pretty for a boy' aside from scoff and promptly run away to catch frogs?
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His childhood was spent roaming, so it’s only fitting that his adult life be carried out in the same fashion.
He became a wanderer kind of purposely by accident.
?his on how he became a wanderer
how'd he deal w/ the games (self-destructive tendencies???)
w/ the law (stick it 2 the man tho)
idk wtf is even happening rn
