marcus greenstone (philistines) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-05-04 16:39:00 |
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In a country so obsessed with youth, age was carved out of its identity by precision knives and luxury goods. But to a Victor of aged luxury, such precision was no longer necessary, and long ago had Pecan eschewed manic hair colours and pretentious pets to maintain status and dignity in the Capitol. Instead, the waiter dismissively eyed her scars of time, and in hushed whispers considered whether or not this old lady could afford a restaurant like this. Pecan sighed, one part gratitude, one part resentment: he must have been born past the 40s and the 50s. Loneliness was a concept foreign to a Victor; in their old days, this was a frequent meeting spot, where the waiters shuddered in fear of losing their jobs, where the manager painstakingly set an extra spot at the table for a beloved pet. There required not phone calls, hastily hung up and scorned, nor invitations, rose scented or otherwise. Such things were given. Now, loneliness was a concept too dear to a Victor; in twenty years the constant barrage of cameras and noise had silenced itself into the occasional sommelier's contemptuous wine pour. The (few) times she saw him were quiet meetings, marked only by a single, shared cigarette, which, passed between them, carried no words of solace or gratitude. Ones were luxury goods, a Capitol trend, a quick fancy. They would fade quickly, unlike that of a District known for its stone cold loyalty. Now those invitations were scarce. (Such things were taken.) If Pecan had been more introspective, she would have identified this feeling as one of regret -- had she had known that the days after the Games would be a bloodbath of time, perhaps she would have spent that commodity more mindfully. The mind reflected not upon: full of pride, fools of pride -- Instead, the waiter fumbled over to the aging (aged) Victor: "Will you be joined by anyone else tonight, madam?" She swirled the wine gently in her glass. "No, darling, I will not be." "Let Marcus pick the wine, for old times' sake," the sommelier was instructed and Marcus obliged, mockingly. He reflected that obliged, mockingly might well be a fitting epigraph for his tombstone, when all was said and done. The Capitol's off season was exactly as it always was. Two's prominent sponsors were as they always were, eager for blood and sport, now gathered around him under the glowing chandelier to eat and drink and reminisce about how much better everything had been in the 40s and 50s. On that note, he emphatically agreed. The Capitol was the same. Marcus would have insisted he was the same, too, but it was small things that marked him as different. A thinness that couldn't be hidden by beautifully tailored suits, silvering hair at his temples, a kind of icy bitterness, sardonic cruelty tucked the corner of every smile. The wine was poured. A quiet, serious tribute had told him once, many years ago, that winning the Games was about both the Capitol's justice and the Capitol's mercy. There was some kind of justice in hellishness of daily life, Marcus supposed. He deserved that. Mercy was in the brief Capitol visits. They were merciful because annually, they still existed -- after all, the two of them had ceased long ago to be anything more than a faded Capitolite memory of champagne and tabloid covers. She was still breathtakingly beautiful. He absently lit a cigarette, offering the monogrammed silver case around. He could never decide if the dull ache in his chest was better or worse than exquisite numbness would have been. He picked at the appetizers. Most of his days were spent alone, wishing he had told her some things and not others, thinking about the time they had carelessly squandered. "Anyway," the boy to his left said, tugging at his sleeve, "What I was saying was if I'd been lucky enough to be born in District 2, I know I would have been a victor." Marcus, swirling the glass of wine, thought about the all boys he had failed, and the ones Zinc had failed, and the ones Brutus had, and all the ones Varro would. Those boys had all known they would be victors, too. The corner of his mouth curled upwards. "And when you win," one woman interjected, with a wistful sigh, "The world is yours for the taking. But I'm sure Marcus can tell you more about that." Ten pairs of expectant bright eyes turned towards him and the table grew quiet. Marcus looked up, startled out of reverie. "What's it like?" the boy repeated impatiently. The silence stretched out, smiles grew strained; he could almost hear his heart beating, fading, breaking. "What's it like to have everything you've ever wanted?" "I don't know," he said. |