Shit, they're doing this? Owain grins and picks up the pace as they walk, sticking to Poe's side like glue. He can see the bookshop in the distance and the noise he makes is somewhat reminiscent of a strangled seagull, because he's fantasized about going to a store like that, and now there's one right there, and he has to do everything in his power to not just break into a sprint.
"Yeah! Yeah-- but-- I mean, it's more of a means to an end than anything? I like to write, but I never thought I'd ever be allowed. I'm supposed to mind my words, not... elaborate on them. I'm not supposed to have enough free thought to make art, or create, I'm--"
He swallows, hesitant to talk about all of this. His parents were lucky, to have Lord Dameron and The Lady Commander afford to them as many freedoms as they did. He kicks at the ground and keeps walking.
"Just-- yeah. Books." He nods. "I like-- fiction. And records of history. I like learning about people from the past and the amazing things they did, and I like reading about heroes who do everything in their power to save or change the world." Very, very quietly, he adds--
"That's what I would want to be. If I could be something. A hero to the people, changing things for the better."
He tries to smother she smile that raises to his lips in response to Owain's energy. He really does try. It's tempered, though, as Owain continues, a flicker of a crease in his brow.
"We should get you a journal, then. I don't really tend to carry anything for writing on me, but - I know a lot of the men do."
He stops, though, fully, when Owain finishes, a far more intense expression settling on his face, brows pulled together and his eyes sharp.
"You can be something. Owain. You can be anything you damn well want - I'll make sure of it."
He sinks back and looks up at the sky, thoughts of all the things he could write in them just-- flooding through his head. Stories, memories, everything. It's such a small, small thing to own, but it's a token of something, and he thinks he might lose his mind if he focuses too hard on how much he wants it.
"You gotta, uh..." He grins at Poe, then, feeling tiny and small even as he has to look down to catch his eyes.
"You gotta come with me. If I do that. Become big and strong and have everyone know my name. I'm not gonna be able to do a damn thing in my life without you."
Poe looks like he was getting geared up for a fight, though a fight against what and who is not at all clear.
"You won't need me," he assures him, with all the bullheaded assuredness of the righteous. But after he a second, he adds, "But I'll be there anyway."
He doesn't wait to let Owain start questioning it - or, really, to let him point out why Poe is wrong - instead he just heads straight into the bookshop without another thought, and right up to the seller.
"Travel journals? A good leather binding, if you have them, something sturdy."
Poe bails on the conversation before Owain has a chance to respond-- he would have drowned out the voices in his head and said I think you're right, rather than argue-- and he follows him into the bookshop. Everything smells like leather and paper, and he feels like he's in Kes's library, back home, only now everything here is actually something he can keep.
It's dangerous, when he speaks up, but he interrupts Poe to do it.
"-- Wait. Two? Get two. So Poe can-- write. With me. Can you bring us two?"
The man behind the counter looks at Owain with something close to disbelief, then back to Poe, as if expecting him to speak up. Apologize for his Pledge's impropriety, maybe scold him for talking over his master - but Poe's position in the military prevents him from actually saying anything, and he leaves him and Owain alone.
He only brings back one journal, and it's beautiful, leather-bound and sturdy as Poe asked, a dark brown with a gold butterfly pin latching it shut. Owain says nothing, but his head is bowed, slightly. Fucking idiot.
Poe is not a large one. He is not tall - his stature is not imposing in of itself. But the way his spine straightens and his eyes narrow into sharp dark points makes him seem approximately three feet taller than he is.
"Two, he said." His voice is disturbingly calm - even and deep - and he doesn't even blink at the man when he says it.
The man straightens his own posture and Owain finds Poe's hand, taking it with his own, his bandage over Poe's fresh scar. He doesn't want this to escalate, and he's fine with just going or taking one or whatever, it's fine-- but the man buckles under Poe's projected authority and leaves, coming back with a second journal.
Owain pays for them. He pays, just so he can have the satisfaction of looking the clerk in the eyes when his order - the order he placed - goes back to his hand. He's terrified the whole time and he refuses to let go of Poe, but he does it, and they leave without a fight breaking out.
He puts his hands on his knees and just sort of breathes once they're back on the streets. Fuck. He got carried away.
"What a prick," Poe is muttering, standing next to Owain and glaring back at the store for a while. "Didn't even manage to get you a book, I was too angry."
He paused, turning to look down at Owain, the frustration melting into worry.
Guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty. It wasn't his place, he shouldn't have said shit, this is already getting carried away far too fast, he shouldn't have done that, he shouldn't have done half the things he's done, he should have just stayed quiet and kept to himself and been a good b--
He stands up straighter and scrubs his free hand through his hair, roughing it up and chasing thoughts from his head. He finds the journals and holds them both tight to his chest, looking down as he starts walking dead ahead, directionless. Doesn't know where to go next, just doesn't want to be here.
"I didn't need a book. You don't have to get me a book. Like I said-- means to an end. I'm a writer, I write, I want to write and I want you to write with me and I want-- to write."
"You know I don't even like writing my reports, right?" He asked, trying to joke, but he was too obviously concerned for it to come out with much humour.
"But you said you wanted to do something together, so - sure. For you, I'll try it. Gods know you are taking enough shit for my sake."
He trailed off, before reaching out and squeezing Owain's arm.
"Come on. The ball starts at midnight - we've got a little time, and I'm more than ready to say good-fucking-bye to the Capitol."
The lack of humor and the tension in his mind makes Owain take that as a rejection, and he flinches, up until Poe clears up his meaning.
"No, I-- it'll-- I'll teach you. Okay? It doesn't even have to be anything, it's just-- pen on paper, the feel of seeing something in your head come to life, it's-- you'll see. Okay? You'll see."
He's anchored, by the squeeze on his arm. Looks to Poe like it hurts, for a second, but the longer he looks at Owain, the more obvious it is that he's just really, really fucking hurting from whatever it is that's going through his head and he needs to look at Poe to be reminded that he's okay, he's safe, he's not doing anything wrong.
He takes a breath and nods. Ball. Midnight. Capitol. Okay.
"We'll--" He swallows. "We'll be okay. Through this. Yeah? The dance."
"Hey." He lets go of Owain's arm, reaching out with both hands to cup either side of his face, instead, tilting him down so that he has to meet Poe's eyes. They're still in the middle of the street, but Poe doesn't seem to give a shit - even as his left hand leaves a smudge of blood on Owain's cheek.
"We're alright. You're alright. We'll be just fine. Trust me."
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no subject
"Yeah! Yeah-- but-- I mean, it's more of a means to an end than anything? I like to write, but I never thought I'd ever be allowed. I'm supposed to mind my words, not... elaborate on them. I'm not supposed to have enough free thought to make art, or create, I'm--"
He swallows, hesitant to talk about all of this. His parents were lucky, to have Lord Dameron and The Lady Commander afford to them as many freedoms as they did. He kicks at the ground and keeps walking.
"Just-- yeah. Books." He nods. "I like-- fiction. And records of history. I like learning about people from the past and the amazing things they did, and I like reading about heroes who do everything in their power to save or change the world." Very, very quietly, he adds--
"That's what I would want to be. If I could be something. A hero to the people, changing things for the better."
no subject
"We should get you a journal, then. I don't really tend to carry anything for writing on me, but - I know a lot of the men do."
He stops, though, fully, when Owain finishes, a far more intense expression settling on his face, brows pulled together and his eyes sharp.
"You can be something. Owain. You can be anything you damn well want - I'll make sure of it."
no subject
He sinks back and looks up at the sky, thoughts of all the things he could write in them just-- flooding through his head. Stories, memories, everything. It's such a small, small thing to own, but it's a token of something, and he thinks he might lose his mind if he focuses too hard on how much he wants it.
"You gotta, uh..." He grins at Poe, then, feeling tiny and small even as he has to look down to catch his eyes.
"You gotta come with me. If I do that. Become big and strong and have everyone know my name. I'm not gonna be able to do a damn thing in my life without you."
no subject
"You won't need me," he assures him, with all the bullheaded assuredness of the righteous. But after he a second, he adds, "But I'll be there anyway."
He doesn't wait to let Owain start questioning it - or, really, to let him point out why Poe is wrong - instead he just heads straight into the bookshop without another thought, and right up to the seller.
"Travel journals? A good leather binding, if you have them, something sturdy."
no subject
It's dangerous, when he speaks up, but he interrupts Poe to do it.
"-- Wait. Two? Get two. So Poe can-- write. With me. Can you bring us two?"
The man behind the counter looks at Owain with something close to disbelief, then back to Poe, as if expecting him to speak up. Apologize for his Pledge's impropriety, maybe scold him for talking over his master - but Poe's position in the military prevents him from actually saying anything, and he leaves him and Owain alone.
He only brings back one journal, and it's beautiful, leather-bound and sturdy as Poe asked, a dark brown with a gold butterfly pin latching it shut. Owain says nothing, but his head is bowed, slightly. Fucking idiot.
no subject
"Two, he said." His voice is disturbingly calm - even and deep - and he doesn't even blink at the man when he says it.
no subject
Owain pays for them. He pays, just so he can have the satisfaction of looking the clerk in the eyes when his order - the order he placed - goes back to his hand. He's terrified the whole time and he refuses to let go of Poe, but he does it, and they leave without a fight breaking out.
He puts his hands on his knees and just sort of breathes once they're back on the streets. Fuck. He got carried away.
no subject
He paused, turning to look down at Owain, the frustration melting into worry.
"... You alright?"
no subject
Guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty. It wasn't his place, he shouldn't have said shit, this is already getting carried away far too fast, he shouldn't have done that, he shouldn't have done half the things he's done, he should have just stayed quiet and kept to himself and been a good b--
He stands up straighter and scrubs his free hand through his hair, roughing it up and chasing thoughts from his head. He finds the journals and holds them both tight to his chest, looking down as he starts walking dead ahead, directionless. Doesn't know where to go next, just doesn't want to be here.
"I didn't need a book. You don't have to get me a book. Like I said-- means to an end. I'm a writer, I write, I want to write and I want you to write with me and I want-- to write."
no subject
"But you said you wanted to do something together, so - sure. For you, I'll try it. Gods know you are taking enough shit for my sake."
He trailed off, before reaching out and squeezing Owain's arm.
"Come on. The ball starts at midnight - we've got a little time, and I'm more than ready to say good-fucking-bye to the Capitol."
no subject
"No, I-- it'll-- I'll teach you. Okay? It doesn't even have to be anything, it's just-- pen on paper, the feel of seeing something in your head come to life, it's-- you'll see. Okay? You'll see."
He's anchored, by the squeeze on his arm. Looks to Poe like it hurts, for a second, but the longer he looks at Owain, the more obvious it is that he's just really, really fucking hurting from whatever it is that's going through his head and he needs to look at Poe to be reminded that he's okay, he's safe, he's not doing anything wrong.
He takes a breath and nods. Ball. Midnight. Capitol. Okay.
"We'll--" He swallows. "We'll be okay. Through this. Yeah? The dance."
no subject
"We're alright. You're alright. We'll be just fine. Trust me."