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

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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

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."

"At present, there is little else I can do." He knows what Courfeyrac is thinking, they just need an opportunity to strike and that all the oppressed in Panem will join them. If not the people, than the Tributes. Sadly, that isn't how it works here. Revolution is more complicated than a few muskets, a healthy dose of idealism and the right moment to call people to the barricades. "Venus is very skilled in manipulating public perception. I wish that I could say the same thing for myself."

Which hasn't stopped him from amassing a small following, but on a certain level, Enjolras suspects that at least half of his fanclub are only there for his appearance, and the other half like feeling like nonconformists and don't truly understand half the things he says. It's probably too much to expect of them. "Anyway, it is not my responsibility to see that you do well in your fights to the death. If you need something, I am expected to find someone to whom I can appeal and have it sent to you. If I appear to actively partake in my work, I they will be less suspicious of my other activities."

To be fair, Courfeyrac isn't about to make the same error in judgement twice. He's not merely an extension of Enjolras, after all. But he is an optimist, and having no experience with the people of this country, he cannot say one way or the other how he expects them to react. They had been surprised by the masses before. Who is to say they will not be surprised again?

"Do not sell yourself short, Enjolras. You have always attracted your legions." Then, turning his gaze back to Venus, he says, "Please know that I will aid you in anyway I can, Venus. I may be out of my element, and I may wish to see their spectacle end with great haste, but I do not wish to see anyone needlessly suffer for their amusement."

"It's the cheekbones. He attracts them with his cheekbones."

For a moment, Venus considers spinning a sordid public tale of two best friends in a love triangle with the same woman. But she dismisses the idea without needing to engage in serious thought, having decided she's exploited Enjolras' ability to ignore the public enough and having decided Courfeyrac certainly didn't sign up for that. ~~Little does she know that part of that drama may spin itself~~.

"You'll have my protection too, Courfeyrac. I'm a contender in these games, and my help counts for a lot more than some of the losers around here." She smiles and thanks the waitress as she takes her oatmeal. "Although if it comes down to you or Ellie, Ellie wins."

Enjolras visibly tenses at the name of the girl he couldn't save. He knows that she and Venus are friends, and that clearly friends are allowed to be around and influence friends --frankly, he's happy for Venus' friendship with the seemingly innocent girl-- but even so, he can't shirk the guilt or the memory of her blood on him, or her voice as she'd pleaded for her life with the monster he'd killed.

"Ellie deserves someone capable of protecting her." Suddenly, he doesn't want the sandwich placed in front of him anymore. Courfeyrac had ordered about twelve things, maybe he'd want it. "They score us, but you are familiar with that. My score is relatively low for the competition, meaning that I made several people very wealthy when I won because the odds were not at all in my favor. Unless you have some hidden combative talents, Venus is a safer bet than either of us, I imagine. The friend she mentioned, as well."

He is listening intently, though it may not seem that way from his demonstration of gluttony. It feels like it's been ages since he's had a decent meal and he's not about to pace himself right now. "I would wager I am a better fencer than you are." He speaks to Enjolras, trying to turn the conversation away from it's depressing talk of dead little girls. "Let us discuss something less morbid. I've had death on my mind since before I was reborn here. Surely there must be something else we could discuss."

"Well, it is the elephant in the room." Venus mostly stirs her oatmeal, rather than eating it, casting a worried look at Enjolras. Besides, Courfeyrac may be stuffing his face a while, and one person at a table eating is as awkward as things can get. "Of course, you and I can get to know each other a little better, Courfeyrac. Enj doesn't talk about his personal life all that much so a all I know about you is that you went to school together."

The perceived criticism brings him out of his head for a bit, but doesn't do anything to offset the pensive frown which draws harsh lines around his mouth. "You know more about me than anyone else in Panem, Eponine, Marius and Cosette very much included."

Isn't to say that any of them know that much about him at all. Enjolras has always had a tendency of creating social circles without necessarily drawing in close friends. In Paris, republican fervor made politics seem like genuine emotional connection and who's to say that in their particular situation they were not one and the same? Still, his thoughts bring him to the bitter conclusion that he doesn't have friends in Panem. It's possible that one one really does.

"I have neglected to tell you very much about my personal life because, to be quite honest, I do not and have never managed to maintain one. Courfeyrac and I were in school together and then we were members of the same political organization. He is still one of my closest friends and lieutenant."

Rather than balk at being referred to as a lieutenant, Courfeyrac takes it in stride, eyebrows arching in amusement. He replies to Venus as if Enjolras is not even there.

"Alexandre-Marie was never one for a social life, I'm afraid. Our society was perhaps the closest he ever came to having one, which is, in my estimation, not a complete waste. On the contrary, I believe his personality is well suited to that type of organization. For, as you may have noticed, our dear friend is a man of strong opinions. He always took great pride in his ability to construct an argument, and he can be entirely persuasive." He finally glances over at his old friend, smirking a little and speaking in French. "You are a mysterious sort, Monsieur Enjolras. I used to think that perhaps you preferred it that way, but as I came to know you, I came to realize that you simply had no desire to let anyone in. It is not a fault. In fact, I sometimes found that enviable. You never needed people as I did."

Edited 2014-01-18 05:37 (UTC)

"Well that's just sad," she says to respond to Enjolras' assertion that she knows more about him than Eponine, Marius or Cosette - but the truth is she's hardly been all that more forthcoming about her personal life. She has a way of trying to redirect the conversation back onto him, or of letting it spiral off into the impersonal abstract tangents he prefers.

She's a little surprised to hear Courfeyrac say Enjolras' given name, though. She'd assumed it was something of an intentional secret. "He can be quite persuasive. He's working on saving me from a life of sin these days, you know?"

She winks and stirs her oatmeal before pulling forth a spoon and blowing on it, exaggeratedly puckering her lips. "But I don't think you don't need people, Enj."

And then, as if catching herself from a stumble, "you have to have someone to bounce ideas off of."

"Persuasion is hardly a skill one can perfect alone." He isn't really sure just what Courfeyrac is trying to get at, and barely manages not to roll his eyes at the given name. Something is bothering his friend and it's more petty than the Games, or his sudden resurrection. Existential discontent is to be expected, maybe even encouraged. This subtle ribbing on the other hand. Well, Enjolras would simply have to ask about it later.

He falls silent for a moment, considering making a valiant attempt at the sandwich. It still doesn't look all that appetizing. He could take the bait and reply back in French, cut Venus out of a conversation he doesn't understand and thus would rather not have. It seems rude somehow, and not just because of the language barrier. "And someone needed to dedicate himself to the organization of the cause. Had it not been me, it would have been Combeferre, or perhaps even you, Monsieur Courfeyrac. I consider it less a matter of mystery and more a matter of pragmatism."

"He has been working on me for quite some time," Courfeyrac says, smiling at her. "There are beliefs one must come to in his own time. One can be shown the light and refuse to bask in it's warmth, only to recognize it all once the clouds have covered it up again. The hearts of men are of that nature."

His own appetite has not decreased. On the contrary, he has been, in between speaking, devouring the food before him, somewhat resembling a predatory animal with the corpse of his prey. Normally a well mannered man, he doesn't have it in him to apologize for any of that now. He's too famished.

"You would say that, my friend. But you never saw your own appeal, either. For you, it was the message, and that is fine, that is admirable. But for others, it was not just the message, it was also the messenger." ~~And for another of their clique, the messenger only.~~ "But enough of the boring tales of our intellectual pursuits. Allow me a moment so that I might conjure up some embarrassing story of our school days for Mademoiselle. Something that will entertain her." And it is so hard to come up with something entertaining about Enjolras.

"I can't tell if that was poetic or if it was, what was the word, um, serendipitous translation there."

She wags a finger and nods in agreement with Courfeyrac. Like she said, those cheekbones are how Enjolras really draws the crowds. "Do tell. He's probably heard me singing good morning to the coffee maker, so whatever you can come up with to embarrass him doesn't count for anything to what he's got on me."

And probably heard her singing, more loudly and less on key, in the shower. The walls really aren't thick enough for the District Suites. If Venus never has to hear the Initiate snore again, it'll be too soon.

"And here I thought you were serenading the toaster all this time." A gentleman doesn't comment on things like key or general sound quality, and besides, it's not fair to do that on something as benign as singing in the shower or at small appliances. He smirks back across the table at them, however, confident that anything Courfeyrac can remember will fall more into the category of boring rather than embarrassing.

"I spent my time studying, which I am sure will be no surprise at all to anyone present. My biggest embarrassment, I suppose, is that I have no stories to tell." Unless they wanted to hear about how he had sought out forgotten hallways of the school, looking for the places his Revolutionary idols used to hide and trade banned books between them. And even if they did, he would probably categorize that as more childish than anything else. "She has already seen me drunk, so you cannot use that against me either, my friend."

"The embarrassing part is not when you would drink. It is when you would not." What a stick in the mud he was! Courfeyrac rolls his eyes at his old friend. "Alas, it is true. Most of your youthful indiscretions sadly involved mistranslations of the Greek or Latin, or perhaps presenting your politics to us when we were too drunk to understand them sufficiently. Or too drunk to hold our tongues."

"I sing Goodnight, My Love to the toaster. I sing Good Morning, Sunshine to the coffee maker." Venus has her routines, no matter how obnoxious they may be to her Districtmates. Compared to what Initiate and Shepard get up to, and Diana Ladris stealing food from the fridge as if her life depended on it, Venus' little quirks are hardly even noticeable.

She rests her chin on her hand and gives Enjolras a long, appraising look. "Honestly, that sounds about right. Even when he was drunk he wasn't really embarrassing so much as like..."

She trails off and politely looks away, leaving Courfeyrac to suss out what she's teasing about.

He eyes her back, a little unsettled by the discussion happening around him. The feeling intensifies as she trails off. There is absolutely no way, no matter how dazed he is, that Courfeyrac will miss it, or not take the opportunity to needle him about it. The mystery is whether the needling will happen now or whenever they get another moment alone.

"I become too liberal with my opinions." The clarification is soft. Enjolras has never been a particularly good liar and is only digging himself in deeper. "He knows that already, he's been privy to it more times than I can count."

Abruptly, as if to shake off whatever uneasiness has settled over them (or maybe even just him), he slides his plate closer to Courfeyrac. "Would you like this, my friend? My appetite has sadly deserted me, and I would not want it to go to waste."

Courfeyrac shakes his head, undaunted by the abrupt change of topic. "I may be famished, but even I have my limits. Perhaps you could offer it to the kitchen help. It is likely they have not dined as well today." Because that is clearly the case. If he knows one thing about servants, it is that they are perpetually underfed.

"We can take it to the creepy slaves." Venus exaggerates a shudder. "I hear they're former rebels."

She gives Enjolras a meaningful look. Fate worse than death. Then she calls over a waiter to help them pack the sandwich. As Enjolras predicted, there's no tab.

"Then again, maybe not. I don't know if they'll be able to eat it, though, without their tongues. I'd say we should grab them a smoothie but they get really scared when you pay any attention to them besides to give them orders, and that includes giving them things."

"Yes, they do," The fate worse than death thing isn't lost on him. Enjolras has spent enough time trying to engage the Avoxes in, well, anything resembling conversation to know that it's a no go, that there's nothing that can compel them now to defy the Capitol in any way. If they really were rebels, it's staggering. Would that be him someday? Would that be Courfeyrac, or Venus? Or anyone with whom he chose to associate?

"We should return home. Monsieur Courfeyrac will need his rest." His voice is soft. It isn't that he fears for his own life, He's beyond caring about that, but the prospect of endangering others in another failed rebellion really isn't appealing. If they are to act, and they are to act he needs to be certain. They all do. "Tomorrow we should go to the Training Center. He will not be familiar with the equipment there, or the procedures, and will quickly distract himself socializing with the other Tributes."

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