marcus greenstone (philistines) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-04-18 15:02:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | ! 57th games, - capitol, victor: 40th pecan glint, victor: 42nd marcus greenstone |
WHO: Pecan and Marcus
WHAT: This time, it wasn't a demand, but a choice
WHEN: Backdated to before the start of the Games
WHERE: Pecan's penthouse
Earlier that morning, Marcus had nicked himself while shaving. This was an irregularity, and he had been procured and applied antiseptic in a state of confusion. Apart from that, it was a perfectly smooth shave (done himself, not by Avoxes -- even after fifteen years, it was impossible to trust someone else to hold a razor close to his bare throat). At least today, there was a real cause of distraction. Several hours had passed, but the sponsorship offer still blinked quietly at the corner of his tablet -- an astounding sum of money for One and Two's tributes, and an astounding request. (But was it all that astounding? After all, it had been demanded from them nearly ten years ago, but they had been younger, handsomer, more naive. And this time, it wasn't a demand, but a choice.) The answer should have been obvious, but the drive to Pecan's penthouse had been uneasy, plagued with a dull pain that he couldn't quite place. If Marcus had been introspective at all, he would have known it was the same pain he associated with the clear evidence that the months they were being requested in the Capitol were declining, and would continue to decline, slowly and surely, as the dull, grey years stretched on ahead. But District 2 never produced philosophers, and his face that afternoon was an open book as he quietly slid open the glass doors and stepped outside to join her on the penthouse balcony. The few (rare) times that they convened in her apartment was marked by such (emotional) disgust that its pattern was readily formed and observed, and with a floral (rose) scented note perched curiously between her fingers she lit both herself and her visitor a cigarette. After all, they had shared much more than cigarettes, had they not? But despite her rather casual attitude towards revisiting a long buried past, smothered away by fairy dust, uncovered by acid, forgotten again by cocaine, Pecan’s eyes avoided his icy gaze, and rescinded the conciliatory gesture as soon as he accepted the cigarette. Instead: “It’s a rather large sum of money,” she said, at length. “And ---” and she turned to briefly glance her finger against his cheekbone, the actress’s eyes levelling towards his with that same smile he might have recognised some ten odd years ago in a hotel neither of them had set foot within since -- “you haven’t touched me in a while, have you?” Pecan's specialty -- the cat-like balance between humorous and cruel -- usually served to delight him. But today was different; her words were marked with something that tore from him like a ragged gasp. Marcus strode to the edge of the balcony, gripping the railing with bone-white knuckles, staring down at the Capitol life that continued, busy and ignorant, down below. "So you want to say yes," he acknowledged dully. There were reasons to say yes -- money for four tributes who brimmed with promise, a possible increase in popularity, more time in the Capitol next year, more time together, more time. Skin crawling, he took one drag of the cigarette and then dropped it over the edge, watching the plummet in silence. "Our tributes may or may not survive this," he finally said. "But we..." (and it never was clear if 'we' meant some kind of unit, or if it just meant two individuals thrown together by circumstance and something irreversible, of if there was any difference, in the end) "But we won't." She was caught mid-breath by surprise: she had expected him to say “will” (as they always had weathered any storm). After all, that was what she would have said. We have. We can. It’s just sex. I thought you were fond of them this year. It’s Vellum’s first year... A myriad of humourous and cruel reasons idly weighed itself on the tip of her tongue, a methodological balancing act as she sorted through each one and constructed the greatest monologue any would ever see or hear. But its delivery was faulty: “We have. We can. It’s just sex. I thought you were fond of them this year. It’s Ve---” A beat (a break) to collect oneself, and she took another drag from the cigarette. "I'm sorry," Marcus said in a low voice, unable to look at her. The words were unfamiliar on his tongue. Fifteen years had seen nearly every emotion between them except remorse -- they were Career victors, and Careers never apologized for the choices they did or didn't make, for the circumstances they could or couldn't control. In past years, he would have recoiled at the idea of seeming weak in front of her (and for how much of his life had he fought to prevent that?), but they were laughably past it now. But still, to meet her eyes would have been a death blow to whatever traces of pride he had left, and at the end, District 2 only really valued pride. He stared over the railing, mentally tracing the path of his discarded cigarette down the many stories. "So sorry." Her response: equal parts shock and anger, was quelled by his blatant littering. If Two’s pride was shot by a word, One’s was destroyed by a lack of vigilance -- she turned sharply on her heel to leave his figure on the balcony. He could find his own exit. But in the safety of her room, filled with Capitol ears and Snow’s men, she considered the cost of that pride. Their rapidly declining relevance, as little as she wished to admit it, meant less time in the Capitol. But his unsolicited advice last year had its own price, and during this off season her anger was directed in constant avoidance of his presence. For now, she would survive as she always had. She would not dwell on its cost. |