lyme (lyme) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-03-29 21:24:00 |
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Faintly in the distance, Marcus could hear noises in the hallway -- an irregularity in itself, as his penthouse was always quiet in the afternoons before the Games began. He shifted slightly on the pristine white couch, not bothering to look up from the tablet resting on his lap as the noises grew closer and closer. Quince's comments were providing enough distraction currently, and intruders weren't a fear in the Capitol. There were only two people in the world who could enter without knocking, and one was currently spending the entire afternoon modeling for Narses Langfield. That left one. "You know, one day I actually might change the locks," he murmured, half to himself, still not looking up from the glowing screen. He absently reached for the glass of scotch on the table, before realizing it was empty. Still fuming, still struggling and fighting against the idea that she was involved in yet another losing battle against their escort, Lyme didn’t give a moment’s thought to knocking. She didn’t even bother with a greeting, instead slumping down on his couch with an angry huffed sigh. “There’s more horseshit in what that woman says than there is in District Ten,” Lyme declared angrily. “How do you put up with her crap?” She was incredulous, even if she had to admit that picking a fight with Capitolites was childish. “How? What’s the secret? You’ve got to know one, Marcus, I’m sure you do.” Marcus snorted derisively, finally looking up from the glowing screen. "Me? Diana, you're confusing me with someone else. If I'm not fighting with Quince, it's because I'm not speaking to her." He slouched against the white pillows. "She used to confiscate my phone when I got mouthy. Now she just gives me a hellish sponsor schedule." He took in Diana's scowl with resignation. "I think," he added thoughtfully, "It's been a while, and you've forgotten what's important to our dear escort. She'll make sure we'll never be at a loss for money, but really, what are personal preferences to her when a magazine cover could be at stake?" He reached into his breast pocket. "Cigarette?" Lyme didn’t really smoke, but she had a vivid memory of the first time that she’d tried to. She halted, mouth open ready for a further diatribe about Quince, and then narrowed her eyes into a proper glare at him. “Yes,” she decided. “And if that awful woman complains, at least she’ll be doing something other than Diana-ing me.” Lyme scowled at Marcus. “She knows I hate it, she knows I don’t want to be that. No one calls me that, no one!” A brief pause, and then Lyme continued. “Except you, I suppose. But that’s you. That’s okay,” she waved a hand, dismissing the idea that he was at fault too. “And yes. A cigarette. Yes.” She fixed her glare on him once again. “Please.” Marcus grinned suddenly, also remembering the that night, five years ago, when a victor's teenage rebellion had made the idea of smoking a cigarette on a rooftop so appealing. "Do you still need me to -- never mind, I'll just assume I should." He lit the cigarette he was holding and passed it to her before reaching for another one. "Oh, I'm sure it's still my fault in one way or another," he said, letting the first ring of smoke swirl above their heads and musing on his own stubborn insistence to only call tributes by their last names when they were dead. "I can start calling you Lyme in front of her, if you'd like, but it won't help -- I think it's fairly clear to our entire District how she feels about me. When I said pick your battles, though, this is probably one worth picking." Lyme’s expression softened considerably as she looked away from the cigarette and back to Marcus. Maybe he was just humouring her, or maybe he understood it. She was still struggling to reconcile herself with the fact that she had so little control over her life, and it had been that way since her victory. A name could seem trivial, but it had taken on some other meaning for Lyme. It was something of her that couldn’t be changed, a persona that gave her strength to brush off anything unpleasant. “You don’t think I’m being stupid?” Lyme asked tentatively, wary that he may still be laughing at her. "No," Marcus said flatly, judging with surprising accuracy that this wasn't the moment to poke fun at her stubbornness in all things. A pause, and another smoke ring dissipated. "The others will back you up too, you know. Don't think they won't -- Scoria and Zinc, Claudia." He shrugged. "Quince is just an escort, and this is a passing whim." Marcus glanced at her and then looked away, gaze unfocusing slightly as he stared down at the glass coffee table. "Look, at the end of the day--" his voice was suddenly ragged, not from the smoke, but from something pained and raw that couldn't be suppressed, even fifteen years later "--there's only so much we can really do for each other. And if this matters to you, Diana, we'll make it matter to everyone else." Lyme took a defiant look at the lit cigarette, and then nodded. “Good.” |