Shark (lastyearsboy) wrote in colosseum, @ 2013-12-06 15:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | - capitol, victor: 30th feist maccarrick, victor: 40th pecan glint, victor: 42nd marcus greenstone, x-victor: 54th shark everett |
WHO: Schuyler Everett, Pecan Glint, Marcus Greenstone, Feist Maccarrick
WHAT: Debauchery
WHEN: BACKDATED to just after this.
WHERE: Pecan and Marcus' apartment.
WARNINGS: Drug use, alcohol served to minors, sexual innuendo...
STATUS: Complete
What in the hell was Schuyler getting himself into? He’d spent almost an hour trying to decide what he should wear, which made him glad he wasn’t sharing a room because if anyone caught him doing that he’d never live it down. It was so Capitol of him, giving that much of a shit what he wore to a little gathering of fellow Victors. He couldn’t help it, though - he was nervous. These were older people, beautiful people, the kinds of people that he’d never actually be. Schuyler picked a pair of snug black pants and a silky light blue shirt. He even brushed his hair and tried to flatten it down. But there was nothing that could be done about the bags under his eyes - he’d slept for perhaps two hours since arriving in the Capitol - or the paleness of his skin or just the general unkempt look about him that seemed to scream I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m barely functioning, here. But at least his clothes looked nice. Schuyler left his own room and headed for Marcus' penthouse. It was a few minutes after four when he rapped lightly on the door, his hands shoved into his pockets afterward so he didn’t fidget. This wasn’t anything to be nervous about, he kept reminding himself. Just a few friends hanging out and getting him drunk for the first time. That was all. If Schuyler was surprised that it was Pecan to open the door, she did not acknowledge it -- their friendly arrangement had more or less deemed his home hers as well (he did not share such a luxury with her penthouse) and she smiled with the graciousness of a District 1 host to welcome the guest of the night. (In truth she was excited: there was a particularly bitter segment of Pecan’s heart that called for the destruction of anything beautiful and clean. Schuyler was the perfect victim to these dark temptations, and he was even willing to do so. The pent up anger around her brow would find nice release against the skin of the untouched..) “Good to see you didn’t get lost on your way here, Shrimp,” she said, affectionately trading his nickname for a different, smaller sea creature. “Now get inside, you’re late.” Even though Schuyler had expected Marcus to open the door - since it was his penthouse and all - it wasn't that much of a surprise to see Pecan. She seemed to be in charge a lot of the times, from what he'd seen of her. "Hi," he greeted her, with an uneasy smile. Shrimp, that was new. He didn't mind it as much as Shark or Sharkbait, which seemed to be what Marcus preferred to call him. "Okay, thanks," Schuyler stepped inside, glancing around curiously. So this was how the other half lived. Schuyler could've had a big, fancy house full of big, fancy stuff but what would be the point? To have someplace fancy to be miserable in? Determined to have fun tonight, damn it, though, he pushed that thought out of his mind. "Sorry I'm late," he added. "Are you staying here with Marcus?" he asked, innocently. Well, mostly innocently, anyway. "Don't be an idiot, Sharkbait," Marcus called out, moving into the foyer. Though his eyes were slightly bloodshot from the fairy dust they had been snorting, years of practice had rendered him almost entirely steady on his feet (and for what it was worth, his clothing was entirely immaculate). The floor to ceiling liquor cabinet was his destination, and he began pulling out bottles and glasses to set on the bar counter with the air of a connoisseur as he waved Schuyler inside. "Living with her would entail living with her wardrobe, her rat, I mean, her dog, and of course, her charming personality," he drawled, as if Pecan were not standing maybe two feet away. "Do I really want to subject myself to that at all hours? Do I really? Here, drink this--" he shoved a whiskey sour at Schuyler. "You might like it." “Don’t worry, Sharkface,” Feist called from the seemingly pristine white couch. Maybe it was pristine. Today. “With Pecan, one is always late. She expects you to arrive the moment she realizes she may or may not want to see you, and if you take too long she threatens to burn your apartment down.” He appeared a little more put together than either of the Career Victors, though his shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his ribs, exposing the barest sliver of the gruesome scar on his abdomen. Predictably, Lorcan IV sat in his lap, and Feist was stroking the dog with an expression of faint disgust. At the stirrings of alcohol, Feist pushed the dog off his lap to shed on the couch and moved towards the liquor cabinet, mixing chartreuse and gin with lime. He raised his glass. “I, on the other hand, will always be glad to see you, at any time. Remember that.” Sharkbait, Sharkface, Shrimp. Schuyler didn't think his actual name was half bad, but no one wanted to call him that. He shrugged it off though, with a chuckle at what Marcus said as he handed him a drink. "I don't know," he answered him. "She seems pretty nice to me," he added, and tried a drink of the whiskey sour. True to its name, it was sour. Schuyler didn't mind it, though. He took another small gulp of it before he lowered it from his face. Feist was there too, Schuyler quickly learned. He looked pretty comfortable on that couch, and Schuyler tried not to stare at the scar peeking out from under the man's shirt. "I see. Please don't burn my apartment down," he said, directing his words to Pecan with another smile. He still wasn't sure if Feist was flirting with him, and if he was, whether he was doing it seriously or just to amuse himself. So he didn't say much at first. He lifted his glass a touch when Feist did. "Cheers," he said, and tried to finish the glass in a few gulps. He got most of it down. "That's pretty good. It is a little bit sour, though. It kind of reminds me of lemonade," he mused. Schuyler wasn't sure where he should sit, so he sort of hovered a few feet away from the bar. “It’s too far away,” she shot back quickly, back turned to the rest while she prepared herself her own concoction of dismantled hopes and false dreams. Whiskey sour, she laughed -- an appropriately childish and sweet drink for a child. Pecan was substantially more efficient, and with a flourish she pushed a shot glass across the table to land in squarely in front of him (lots of practice, both in the arena and out). It was a deceptively innocuous little drink, a green little thing that looked like nothing but held the strength of four or five. She was not interested in games, whatever nature they may be. With a sharp turn she noticed vaguely Schuyler’s resultant awkwardness but cared little to resolve it. Instead, she wrinkled her nose visibly at Feist: “Feist, darling, though a shrimp or a shark he is hardly livestock.” -- though her visible disinterest was but a ruse, and undoubtedly both Feist and Marcus knew that she would heavily be interested in assisting Feist in whatever despicable goals he had. "You can sit, Sharkbait," Marcus commented, though he was still browsing the collection of bottles, finally settling on an electric blue liquor, of which he poured himself a shot and then one for Pecan--Feist, who was generally always relegated to the role of dogsitter, was also relegated to serving himself. (The tragedy of not being a Career? Possibly). His head was spinning slightly from fairy dust, but it was accompanied by that delightful peace of mind that was so difficult to find otherwise. "Are you living in a hotel? You should invest in real property. There's nothing like having your own space, even if it comes with semi-permanent guests." “She’s a Career; it’s all a trick. But then, you’re one too.” Feist eyed Schuyler. “But your district tends to produce the least obnoxious Careers. Except for this year. God, I’m so sorry you have to live with that boy if he survives.” As if in sympathy, Feist threw back the remainder of his drink. Clearly the tides were turning towards shots, but he was content to mix larger drinks and then treat them as if they were shots. Again he turned to the lime green—he wanted to complement the palette. “Isn’t he? Livestock is my specialty, as you might know. We’re all livestock, Victors. Paraded here to teach the younger ones how to run and kill. Et cetera.” Schuyler was just setting one glass down when another was pushed at him. Well, the goal is to drunk, right? he reminded himself and picked up the shot of green alcohol that Pecan had slid his way and swallowed it, obediently. That stuff was strong, but Schuyler appreciated the way it burned down his throat and into his stomach. Rather than sitting down right away, he moved around to where Pecan had left that bottle and poured himself another one. "I live back in District 4, I don't really need a place in the Capitol too," Schuyler answered Marcus. He poured and looked at the shot, curiously, before he lifted it to his lips and knocked it back. He had a feeling they were stronger than they looked, but what was the point in doing things halfway? If he was going to get drunk, he was going to get drunk. He swallowed just as Feist was saying he was like livestock and Schuyler couldn't help cracking a joke. "And when we're too old to work anymore, they take us out back and shoot us?" It was a dark joke, sure, but at least it was humor. “Cute, he hasn’t weaned from the breast” -- a casual retort, though Pecan was less judgmental than she seemed: there was a part of her that admired his easy return to home, when the support system (if it could be called as such) of Victors remained predominantly in the Capitol, where the District’s lands (waters) echoed so much of his own arena. Away from view she casually placed a calming hand on Marcus’s forearm -- to most who saw it was nothing more than a touch, but Pecan was well acquainted with his particular feelings towards landscapes similar to District 2. "You'll get bored eventually," Marcus shrugged dismissively. "Well, maybe not. Two is a lot of rocks and rock-like people... at least you've probably got some vague kinds of entertainment opportunities in Four." Though it was only partly boredom that kept him away; while he said nothing of Pecan's hand resting on his arm, she knew better than anyone the mental strain he had been through upon fully processing that his home was entirely identical to the Arena, and how that had developed into utter disdain over the years for most things associated with District 2. It was a good thing Diana Lyme was there to keep an eye on his house in the Victor's Village, really, because he wasn't even sure he knew the floorplan. "And Feist is entirely wrong about everything. We're not livestock, Sharkbait," he sniffed. "And the Victors from your District are not the least obnoxious. Well, Skiff and Pike are fine, but your ladies are horrendous. They've all rejected me at one point or another, which shows an appalling lack of taste. I'm just heartbroken, really." But his free hand had snuck around Pecan's waist, and his expression--drug-fuelled or not--did seem to indicate an utter lack of heartbreak. (Their moments of public intimacy -- few, far, varied: a subtle mix of pure affection, mockery, and dramatic display that left even Pecan confused which factors were weighted in what manner. The hand went unacknowledged save for a brief press against it, the only indication that she gave consideration to visually defiling the younger Victor, while she maintained a disinterested composure and continued to prepare another dosage of fairy dust.) “No, they take us back and operate until we look sixteen again. Haven’t you seen the District 8 stylist?” Feist remained standing, a little apart from the Careers. Wasn’t that always his fashion? And he took Marcus’ criticism with little more than a raised eyebrow and a smile. “Don’t listen to Marcus, Schuyler, he’s just bitter because Ondine likes me and doesn’t like him. The single biggest tragedy of Marcus’ life: being outdone by a District 10.” Schuyler hummed a vague, thoughtful agreement to Marcus and Pecan, all the while wondering why he did stay in his District. It was like being an alien or something, being in District 4 and petrified of going into the water. He almost missed Marcus and Pecan's contact, but he definitely saw it; his head tilted to the side (much like a confused puppy) and he stared at them for a few moments. Then his attention was taken by the shimmering powder that Pecan was pouring out. He put it all together and decided that these must be those drugs everyone was telling him not to take. For a moment, he was distracted by the horror he felt when he listened to Feist - like he couldn't even get old and die, they'd just keep him looking younger and younger, and they'd be trying to get his pants off still when he was 95 years old. The laugh he gave was forced. He found himself wanting another drink, but decided against it. Better wait a few minutes to see how the first three felt. "What is that?" he finally settled on asking, too overwhelmed to process the ideas of perpetual youth or Marcus and Ondine ever getting together. Both were equally unsettling. He nodded toward the powder. "Do you snort that? Does it make your brain glittery?" "Fairy dust," Marcus said. "A Capitol favorite, but only because it's absurdly expensive. You know, I've spent a fair amount of time thinking about what I would deal if I gave up this glorious life for drug dealing, and this is it, because the profit margin is unbelievable. Yes, one snorts it, but no, Sharkbait, you probably shouldn't..." -- and just like that, the moment was over; wheeling from a dizzying amount of fairy dust, Pecan grabbed Marcus’s arm with characteristic roughness and motioned towards the door. “Come on, let’s go jump off a building or something equally entertaining.” Feist’s expression as Marcus and Pecan escaped from their own apartment was one of immense, crushing indifference. He swirled his drink. “They’re so messy,” he said, eyeing the table still alive with remnants of fairy dust. His voice was supremely relaxed, and with them gone he returned to the couch. When the dog tried to jump up next to him, he pushed it off without even looking. “Do you know the story of Pecan’s dog? It’s very funny. Are you going to have the fairy dust?” He indicated the drugs with a gesture of hand, almost sloshing the liquor. Schuyler stared after Marcus and Pecan as they just left. He blinked, and looked back to Feist and his complete indifference to the entire situation. "Are they...?" Fucking, would be the term that Schuyler was looking for. It shouldn't have surprised him, but everything sort of did, these days. He grabbed the bottle of green stuff he'd liked and moved to sit on the same couch as Feist. "Pecan's dog," he echoed, with a glance down to the fairy dust. It looked so harmless, glittering there on the table. With a shrug he swept the remains into a line - more of a pile, really - and mimicked what he'd seen Pecan and Marcus do. Might as well, right? The effect was unlike anything else he'd ever felt. "What about her dog?" |