Blue, Sugar is on that good kush and alcohol. (prematurely) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-01-15 15:20:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | ! backstory, - capitol, victor: 18th rake rivers, victor: 19th scoria onyx, victor: 20th sugar blue |
WHO: Sugar Blue, Rake Rivers, Scoria Onyx
WHAT: Making the band. Nostalgia prompt.
WHEN: Years ago.
WHERE: The Capitol.
WARNINGS: sugar/rake jk or am i
STATUS: Complete.
Sugar took a long drag from a cigarette. His eyebrows narrowed thoughtfully. “Now from my understanding, audiences respond better to groups who have some sort of front man. A face or a name to relate to. People want something to identify with. Someone good-looking, of course. This is why using one of our names--Sugar, for argument’s sake--seems like the best solution.” He tapped his cigarette on an ashtray and put his feet on the glass coffee table. Rake watched Sugar talk with narrowed eyes and his lip curled; a derivation of his standard expression which generally indicated that uncharitable sentiments were to follow. It wasn’t that Rake didn’t like Sugar — they were like cousins, in a way, linked together by close victories — but that man’s vanity was so intolerable that Rake often felt the urge to physically beat it out of him. It was something of a District 1 curse, he’d long ago decided. You almost couldn’t blame them. “Lemme get something straight,” he growled. “You think you’re good-lookin’?” “Doesn’t matter what I think. The proof is in the amount of letters I get from the Capitol wishing they could have a spoonful to put in their coffee, as it were.” "Those doctors can fix just about anything," Scoria piped up from her spot on the armchair, legs tucked underneath her as she picked casually at her nail polish. "And if they can't help, enough alcohol'll help it." Sugar's looks were not the point, though. The point was that they were not naming the band after him. "We're keeping this separate from your… solo work," she added after a pause, her nose wrinkling a little against her will despite Scoria's best efforts. "Rake and I aren't your backup band. I'm sure no one will forget you're involved if your name isn't written all over it." Nor did she want to capitalize -- or "Capitolize," as it was -- on each member being a previous winner of the Games. A member of District 2's prep team had the nerve to suggest "Hail to the Victors" over breakfast; according to Scoria's watch, his dentist appointment was probably nearly done. Sugar resisted an overwhelming urge to give Scoria a very dirty look. “I don’t know. Sugar and the Cubes has quite a nice ring to it.” Rake snorted in dismissal. “I don’t see why we gotta make this some thing,” he grunted. Some Capitol thing, he didn’t say, because the walls would listen. “With the name and the matching fucking outfits and the little girls’ panties with Sugar’s ugly mug printed on ‘em. In my District, we don’t bother with that shit. You say, ‘who’s playin’ tonight at the tavern with the crooked door?’ And your buddy says, ‘oh it’s the three bald guys and the one that’s got hair and a snaggletooth who used to be married to Junie’s sister.’ And everybody knows what you mean.” Scoria didn't say a word. There were no words to say until she could get the mental image of Sugarwear out of her brain, and for that, she had vodka shots. "No. The 'Sugar and the Pubes' jokes are too easy. What if we each throw a dart at something in the room and use that." And who knew? Sugar could still get his name in there after all. Sugar, on the other hand, appeared intrigued by the idea of underwear with his face on it. Anything to stay relevant, he thought. “Not a bad idea,” he said to Scoria, rising to pluck a dart from the board that hung across from them. His aim wasn’t as impressive as the knife throwers from 2, which was evident in where it landed: the face of an old clock instead of the nude portrait of some capitolite he’d been aiming for. Rake cocked his head, considering the clock for a moment. “Welp,” he said, after a beat, “I got nothin’.” He crossed the room, yanking out a handful of darts for his own use, before settling back in his armchair. With one eye open, he cast theatrically about the room with a dart poised between his fingers; when he let fly, it hit the dartboard. “Double eighteen,” he deadpanned. He threw another. “Nineteen.” And another. “Triple twenty, oho! Read it and weep, chumps.” The mention of the number nineteen would forever catch Scoria's attention, the years of being referred to as The 19th Victor rather than by name drawing an automatic response. The realization regarding the others -- 18 and 20, Rake and Sugar --hit her a few moments later. "Hm. You might have somethin'," Scoria said, reaching for the bottle on the table to refill her tumbler. As deep as her aversion might have been to using their status as Victors to help the band, it was the sort of shit that the Capitol would eat up. And the darts seemed to agree. "Eighteenth, Nineteenth, Twentieth. We do something with that. We give them what they want, and we stay relevant." “Fucking brilliant,” Sugar exclaimed, clasping his hands together. “It’s an homage to how we got here, or whatever, and it’ll sell records, absolutely. You know I could kiss you, Rake.” “Why don’t you come over here and try it?” Rake snarled, gold teeth glinting meanly from the corners of his mouth. It was the kind of grimace that warned of imminent strangulation. He slapped his knees with each hand. “Come n’ give Rake some sugar.” Boys. "I'm going to need more alcohol for this," Scoria noted, realizing that her glass had run dry. Taking a quick moment to observe the distance between the two, she set her glass down and left her chair, taking a detour behind Sugar's back on her way to the bar. And gave him a sharp shove in Rake's direction, hoping for her entertainment's sake that he landed right in Rake's lap. |