thecapitol | I ain't much of a poet but I know somebody once told me

Entry tags:

I ain't much of a poet but I know somebody once told me

Who| Courfeyrac & Open!
What| Resurrected French kid has no idea what the hell is going on.
Where| The Central Common Area + District 11 Suites.
When| The day before the trains leave.
Warnings/Notes| N/A

His head was spinning when he was finally left alone in the suites. It felt like it had been an eternity of listening to those people barking at him in words he couldn't process quickly enough to understand, overwhelming to the point that he thought he might lose face and be sick about it. Wasn't he dead? He didn't specifically recall dying, but he remembered the distinct impression that his own demise had been imminent. If he was dead, was this place hell or heaven? He'd never been a particularly devout young man, but he knew none of this was in the Bible.

Thinking about it hurt, and all Courfeyrac wanted to do was to go dig a hole for himself and return to his time and his sleep. He wanted to wake up from this crazy dream, return to Paris, be anyplace but in this city, in this building, in these wretched rooms.

Depressed, he looked about for a corner in which he could hide and regain his pride, or perhaps fall asleep again and wake up feeling normal. He felt as lost and tired as he looked, and if not for his last shred of vanity, he might not even care.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"You didn't, and I haven't been able to say ten words to Marius yet." Venus' face glows with approval at the perfect, if slow English. She leans over her notepad and writes out a phrase: at this rate youll speak better english than i do. Her handwriting is stylized, quick but legible - she's got muscle memory from writing out autographs, which have to look unique and yet easy to read.

She gestures with her pen at the door, grabbing her coat from the rack (the rack is comically tall, due to the attempts to accommodate for the Initiate's towering height). "I hope you've both decided on an appropriate place for dinner. I'm starved."

"The café we went to the other night, I think. It reminds me of a place we frequented in Paris and my insensitive friend should be able to find something he likes there." In truth, he likes it less for its cursory resemblance to the Café Musain, and more for the fact that it is out of the way, off the main streets of the city, and less likely to present him with the unappealing prospect of dodging citizens curious about the personal habits of the latest Victor. "Perhaps we can avoid the absinthe this evening, however. My head still hurts from our last outing."

With a smile, Enjolras turns back to Courfeyrac, an arm inviting him to lead the way out of the spacious suite again. "Venus is more knowledgeable than I about the modern world. If you have questions, she may be able to answer them more easily. I will translate, if you truly require the help."

The English is quick and teasing. It's an implicit challenge to Courfeyrac to step up his game.

Courfeyrac wonders what on earth Enjolras could be referring to with the allusions to absinthe, but he does not ask, he simply leads them out the door. He will demand answers later, for if there is something he should know, he will certainly know it.

"Mademoiselle Venus, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what year we are in presently?" A lengthy and slowly spoken question, to be sure. He is woefully out of practice, having little occasion to practice real English conversation with a native speaker. But the skill is not all lost. It is simply tucked away and not quickly recalled. "This city is nothing like Paris. I've never seen anything resembling it before."

"That's because I made you drink mine. Next time I offer you my drink, you say no." She tugs at her fluffy collar, letting it rest around her chin. "Oh, by the way, this is yours."

She retrieves a red scarf from the rack and hands it over to Enjolras.

"We're in the 21st Century, but they count by different years than we do. By their calendar, we're in year 75." She whisks her fingers over the elevator buttons with practiced ease.

"Oh, thank you." It had been a bad idea to take her drink, that much is certain. Then again, he had approached her with the intent of getting uproariously drunk, and they'd accomplished that quite well. The scarf is accepted with a small nod, and he puts it on, knotting it neatly and tightly under his neck. It will probably be after dark when they return, and the Capitol gets cold at night.

"Are you warm enough, my friend?" The question is clearly directed at Courfeyrac, as he returns to French for the moment. The other man had the standard clothing given to them on arrival, but nothing more to protect him against the snow. "I have an extra coat I can lend you. The designers in the Capitol are... somewhat overly generous to individuals who win the Games."

This little scenario has the instant effect of forcing Courfeyrac to feel like a third wheel. The strange rapport between the two of them is unlike anything he would have thought Enjolras capable of, having known the man a long enough time to know exactly where his priorities lines up. Enjolras had never even noticed women before, and now he seemed frighteningly at ease with one. It's jarring enough to make Courfeyrac send him a puzzled look while Venus is pressing the elevator buttons.

"A coat would be lovely," he replies in English so that Venus could see he is making an effort. Then, he remarks softly, and in French, "How odd that she should have your scarf. And how kind of her to keep it for you."

Venus isn't all that bothered when the rapport switches back into French; after all, she's fairly used to being excluded from areas of Enjolras' life, areas which, she reminds herself, she has no right to access anyway, as merely his friend.

Once Courfeyrac is outfitted with one of Enjolras' coats, she leads them past the ridiculous statue without even glancing up at its current outfit (sometimes during the day, someone's affixed mistletoe as a sort of fig leaf and made a thong of leftover Christmas tinsel - a bit behind the times, Venus would think). The wind kicks up as they walk out and snaps at them like a horde of angry dogs.

"If we weren't only three blocks away, I'd call a cab," she says, burying her face up to the nose in her faux-fur collar.

Edited 2014-01-14 21:02 (UTC)

It's only Courfeyrac's presence that stops Enjolras from handing the scarf right back to Venus, or even wrapping it around her himself. He has no reasonable explanation to Courfeyrac's comments, and the lack of response is probably notable in someone typically so wordy. There's a frown on his face that's just shy of a pout, and the blush may or may not be from the wind which whips passed them.

"That hardly stops anyone else in this city." A derisive snort accompanies the statement, and without further ado (or time to ponder the intricacies and nuances of the evening to follow), Enjolras has launched himself off in the direction of the café, moving with quick, purposeful steps.

"I took Courfeyrac by the bookshop earlier. Would it be an imposition to ask you to show him the Training Center in another day? You are far more familiar with the equipment and what it has to offer."

That pout (and it is a pout, don't play) only serves to add more fuel to the fire. He's never seen anything like that expression from Enjolras before. Any of their other friends, sure, but never him.

Pointedly ignoring the crass marble display, he decides to ignore the unusual expressions and demeanor of his friend in favor of the more attractive and interesting presence of Venus. "I would be much obliged if you were to give me a tour. As you have no doubt seen, Monsieur Enjolras has many wonderful talents, but anything physical is beyond his comprehension."

Venus raises her eyebrows and suppresses a laugh, figuring the innuendo is just a product of translation. She politely and discreetly expels the giggle into her collar, pretending to just be ducking her head down from a gust of cold.

"I'll have to look up the French for Bowflex, but I think I can manage that." She keeps up with the boys, her boot heels making soft clacking noises against the wet concrete. "I'm quite the athlete, and you may need someone to watch your back in the Training Center. Some of our competitors aren't above trying to hamstring us before the event."

"For whatever good it will do them." He doesn't like this, he doesn't like it at all, and worse than the annoyance bubbling pettily within him is the guilt over it. He shouldn't expect anything less from Courfeyrac, not really. Nor does he have any real right to.

"I have never understood how people can take the Games so seriously when they know that we are simply pawns." There isn't much time to ponder the politics of murder games, however, as no sooner do the words leave Enjolras' mouth than the café comes into view. It's cross between a pub and a coffee shop, with golden hued lighting, and tables that seem perhaps too intimate to really be practical. Regardless, it isn't too unlike the Musain at a glance.

"Perhaps those people are not as suicidal as we were, my friend." That is all he is able to get in before they get inside. The place is so much like the Musain that Courfeyrac almost doesn't like it. His former life was only yesterday for him, and the memories of Paris are fresh in his head. Seeing something that reminds him of before, even vaguely, stings a little.

"Come," he says as they are shown to their table, "I wish to hear more about Mademoiselle Venus and about how it has come to be that she is caught up with you, Enjolras."

Venus rolls her eyes and takes a seat across from Enjolras and Courfeyrac, rolling her eyes slightly. "Not all of us slack off on a task just because we have a good excuse to. Some people want to go out with a bang, not a whimper. Heaven forbid."

She looks around at the Capitol citizens in the low light of the cafe. "And some are pretty happy being pawns."

She leans back in her chair, skating towards the more pleasant, if more awkward topic of how she knows Enjolras. "We live in the same Suite. It'd be impossible for us to ignore each other."

They tried for a few weeks. Didn't work.

Edited 2014-01-15 01:53 (UTC)

"Which did nothing to stop our attempts." The thought is completed for her. It's not really an indication that they are or are not in sync, it's merely a statement of the obvious. How many weeks had they sat on opposite sides of the room from one another, pointedly not looking at each other, or, if they did, only exchanging scathing glances stolen over books and magazines? Too many for him to pretend it wasn't extraordinarily childish.

"Nevertheless, it was quite impossible. Which District are you assigned to? You'll be sharing rooms with them and for your sake, I hope they are pleasant."

The way they talk, finishing each other's thoughts, it's completely horrifying. Not because two people don't deserve happiness, but because it's so wildly unexpected.

"Well. It is better to make friends than enemies, for if one is successful, one will never have a shortage of those." He sends a brief, but scathing look at Enjolras, one that clearly says 'I KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON HERE, IDIOT, DON'T PLAY'. "As for my District, I believe they said it was eleven, thought I must admit I have no idea what that refers to."

"The District of Agriculture." Venus knows the Districts by heart; as far as she's concerned, they're her brand while she's in the Capitol. If she has to represent power, she needs to know what her Stylists and Escort will be expecting of her. "I don't know anyone there very well. Cinderella is a competitor, though, you might want to get to know her."

Venus might have killed Cinderella last time. Perhaps. Yes.

She leans back and considers what to eat, stroking her chin as she decides on something. She often leans towards sweet and light, and so decides on having late night oatmeal with all the toppings.

"Geographically, I'd be from District Eleven, but it was called Georgia back in my day."

"Cinderella is a good woman, I can introduce you, if you would like." The look escapes Enjolras as he pours over his own menu, settling on a simple pressed sandwich. It's the same thing he has every time he decides to eat out here, but it has yet to fail him.

"Panem exists in what used to be the United States of America. They insist that there are no foreign countries and, as far as I know, their lack of visible trading arrangements support that. Each of the Districts provides the Capitol with a specific commodity and we represent each of the Districts." He can't be bothered to remember the specifics of what each District is, but the system he knows well. "When we win the Arenas, the Capitol provides more for the Districts. But I told you all of that already."

With a name like Cinderella, the lady is question has to be an interesting one. He nods, taking note of her, to remember to ask Enjolras for introductions later. "How strange. I have always been curious about America. I never imagined I would live to make the journey. And, I suppose, in a manner of speaking, I have not."

He stomach churns then, a stark reminder that it's been centuries since he's had something to eat. A good meal would serve as a decent distraction from the troubles of his mind, both of this world and of his own. He eyes the menu, settling on about ten things that seem appetizing before lamenting his lack of funds, "I'm afraid I have left my purse elsewhere."

Venus laughs there, not just because it's true that Courfeyrac doesn't have anything to his name at the moment, but because it's quite the tried and true tactic to avoid picking up the tab. "Don't worry about it. Enjolras' victory makes him a very rich man and I have my own cache. If Enjolras doesn't treat you, I will."

She orders, making sure to order something non-alcoholic this time. Between the absinthe adventures and the incident at the wedding, she's trying to avoid testing and passing her limits again.

Enjolras has never had to worry about money in the Capitol. Being a decently attractive, well spoken Tribute has its advantages. Still, he can't argue that his Victory has taken it all to a new level. It's unsettling, the way people stumble over themselves to provide for his every whim. Frankly, he'd rather they just ignore him, but that is eternally too much to ask of anyone in Panem.

"I would not worry about the tab, I shall be pleasantly surprised if they even present us with a bill." His tone is light and complacent, frustrated by the thought process behind it all. Abruptly, he shifts the subject back to something more interesting. "Cinderella is a very good writer. She and I have collaborated once or twice in recent memory."

Courfeyrac bows his head as a sort of thank you to their generosity. He's not used to accepting it, but after years of paying for Marius and Bossuet, perhaps it is now his turn to get out of the bill. Having permission to order freely, he selects several things and makes no apologies about it.

"She is your collaborator, eh?" He gives Venus a conspiratorial look. "Has he amassed an entire collective in my absence?"

Venus, too, raises an eyebrow at the revelation that Cinderella and Enjolras know each other relatively well. It's not out of jealousy but out of a concern that there are goings-on that she doesn't know about.

"I don't know about that." She writes on her notepad and passes it to Courfeyrac, smirking at Enjolras. he's pretty good at alienating people

The surface of the notepad is just slightly outside of his line of sight, and while he's curious about what it is she seems so smug about, a waitress interrupts them and the moment is lost before it even has a chance in the first place. Whatever it is, he doubts it will bother him. Venus and Courfeyrac share a certain teasing, cat-like perspective that he has no doubt will make them fast friends.

The waitress leaves again, and Enjolras fixes a look on his friend, eyes serious, mouth a thin line. He's content to play the straight man if it breaks the ice. "No, but I highly encourage you to read the papers here. The stories they create would rival Molière."

"Then I should like to read them," he says, not completely convinced that that is true or even possible. Either way, he would be looking into it soon. He pauses a moment, as if he is searching for the most precise English words he can manage. "And how will you be passing the time while we are off fighting to the death? As a publisher?"

There really is something ugly in calling it what it is: a fight to the death. Not 'games' or 'entertainment' or 'the next round'. Venus doesn't fear death but she realizes that maybe she should for reasons beyond her own whims.

"Well, we help create the stories. That's my special talent." Venus lies back in her chair and sips her water. "I had a life in the public eye before I came here."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject