thecapitol | If You Wanna Be My Lover [Closed]

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If You Wanna Be My Lover [Closed]

WHO| Venus, Enjolras, Maximus and Wyatt
WHAT| Double-date! Awkward dinner, and then rebellious alliances.
WHEN| The day after the Barricade Boys Barfight.
WHERE| District 5 Suites, then a restaurant
WARNINGS| You can say they're going out for fish and ships.

Before Enjolras went out last night, Venus called him aside and told him they were going to have plans for the next evening. She isn't sure how much of it he retained, being on his way out the District Five door to greet Courfeyrac, but at the very least when she grabs him tomorrow for their first double-date - and first date proper, actually - he won't be caught entirely unawares. She then sends a message to Maximus and heads straight to bed, exhausted by her mind and body readjusting to the medication the Capitol likes to shoot up her arm every week.

She spends the next day training, attacking dummies with the practiced, callous strength of someone who possesses technique and vigor but no passion for the exercise. She eats yogurt, and she spends some time with Kankri, and tapes a map to her wall, coloring in areas she's certain have camera coverage. She doesn't say out loud what she's doing.

That evening, she gets herself gussied up in a purple gladiator dress that she finds punny without being too suggestive, does her hair up, and covers her cut lip with a deep red that camouflages the scab formed there. She goes to find Enjolras, and stops in the doorway to his room, both because she figures he'll find it presumptuous should she enter, and because the sight of him surprises her. She expected he'd be reading something, but she didn't expect to see him with his lip puffy and swollen, his eye in a bed of pink and purple and blue, a blow subdermally draining blood around the corner of his mouth like a grey and red coffee stain.

Her first thought, naturally, is Peacekeepers, and Enjolras' big mouth.

"What happened to your face?"

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Nothing is the answer he'd very much like to give, but it's one that he feels will be rejected fairly quickly. The truth is that he hadn't been drunk enough to justify his actions at the cafe the night before, and so he had spent the better part of the day trying to square them with his impressions of himself, Courfeyrac, and Marius. It's an embarrassment, really. All of it. And he can't find a single good reason for why they did what they did other than that they had each been carting around a barely restrained tension since shortly before the Arena. Oddly enough, though, aside from the embarrassment, he feels, well, good about the three of them for the first time in months. The act of backhanding Marius had been oddly cathartic even if he wouldn't be so quick to do it again.

All of which still doesn't provide him with a reasonable explanation when he looks up at her, blue eyes blinking quizzically, one with greater ease than the other. "I-- That is a very complicated question. Is it time for us to leave?"

He closes the book to finish getting dressed. His tie is draped loosely around his neck and his collar is still open. Those things will have to be attended to before they can leave, and thankfully, doing so can give him something with which to distract himself. It really is a shame he looks like such a mess, though. She looks lovely.

"I figured I'd give you a five minutes heads up. Can I come in?"

She waits for assent, then walks in and takes a seat on the edge of his bed, eyes flitting over books and papers and the coat he wore all winter hanging from the back of the door.

"Is it something that's safe to talk about?" Her eyes dart over to each corner of the room, to the ceiling fan, wondering where the camera might be, then downwards as she realizes it's probably about shoulder-level. She always has an idea of where she's being watched from whenever she walks into a room, and now is no different. She'll ask what he's reading momentarily.

She gets back up, having only just sat down, and moves over to straighten his collar. "Here, I know how to tie a tie. It's a pretty rare skill in my day, I know."

"Are they not the standard?" He asks, more a polite inquiry than anything else. He'll have to answer her question eventually, but every minute he can buy is at least a small comfort. It gives him more time to come up with a reasonable explanation, at the very least. For much the same reasons, he lets her work rather than attempting the not himself, trying hard not to think about how close they are and how it really isn't proper at all. "I could barely tie a cravat. Or rather, I knew how to tie one, I simply did not like to wear them very much."

When she's done, he moves about the room again to tidy up his things. It doesn't matter much, probably, whether or not he leaves them out, but it's habit and there's a difference between being cluttered and being messy, even if it's minute. That also buys him a few seconds. Awkwardly quiet seconds. Perhaps the jig is, in fact, up.

"I went out last night, you know. With Courfeyrac, Marius, and Joly." Tone impassive, he doesn't look at her as he searches through his closet for a suitable jacket. Red would be expected, black would be classic, if bourgeois. There had to be a happy medium. He shouldn't care as much as he does.

"I'm surprised Claudia hasn't introduced you to the clip-on tie yet." Her tongue sticks out of the corner of her mouth as she gets his shirt lined up just right, focused entirely on the folds of fabric and dimple of his collarbone. When he's done cleaning up the room, she brushes off his shoulders, reaches up and pushes back one of his curls that's gone rogue, and takes his hand. By now her hand feels more at home inside his than outside it.

If they were standing in front of a sunset, the pose would look romantic; as it is, they're standing in front of his closet, looking at coats, and the whole thing is just a tiny bit comical.

"Do they look as bad as you do right now?" She points to a red one. "I like that one. Red's my color too."

Obligingly, he pulls the jacket from its hanger. There's a thought half formed, some witty comment about how she's wearing purple instead of her color, but he forgoes it in favor of manning up and facing the music. "Joly should be fine now. He made himself sick in the middle of it, before he could get dragged in."

Though he pulls his hand from hers momentarily, it's only so that he can pull the jacket onto his shoulders. After that, their hands return to their symbiotic and impossibly codependent positioning. Perhaps his confession will be easier if she is made forcibly aware of her affections for him by means of physical contact.

"In retrospect, I believe it to have been a misunderstanding. You see, Courfeyrac was very angry, and I thought that he hit me." He pauses. Yes, after careful analysis, that seems right.

"I stumbled into Marius, and then I hit Courfeyrac." Which means that he, Enjolras, had actually started the whole thing. "And so he hit me again. Marius tried to hold me back, so I hit him and then Marius hit me," For all his repaying the of the events in his his head, he hadn't actually taken the time to do the math. Suddenly his numerous injuries make sense. It had, in effect, been two against one. "And that is when they threw us out."

To be fair, he had broken Courfeyrac's nose in the first blow. Maybe it had needed to be two against one.

Venus knits her fingers through his, roots through the earth of his hand. She turns her head and raises her eyebrows, a smile that's a bit worried. On one hand, she does find it upsetting, like a fist tightening inside her stomach, to think of how the weight and stress of the Arenas is turning this crew of friends against each other - and yet there's no doubt she'll sleep easier at night knowing that the Peacekeepers aren't about to come shoot up everyone in the Suite. Little as she cares for her own safety, she cares for that of Enjolras and Kankri, and to an extent for Diana and Shepard.

"Boys," she says, shaking her head, and she rolls her eyes in a way he's sure to see. Somehow, she feels as if she's laid claim to these motley Frenchmen, the ones she's grown deeply fond of as if they were her teammates. Closer than that, maybe, because even though the threat of death is still so close, even in a situation where they may have to kill each other (and in her and Enjolras' case, have done so), there's been a certain organic affinity that has come up between all them. She feels protective, in a way. Upset at turmoil among those she would eagerly call her friends, at this point. Upset that her closest friend is upset enough to punch her other friend.

"If you don't think it would embarrass him, I can talk to Joly about those attacks he has. I used to have them all the time, I know some tricks."

Her other boys await. She leads rather than pulls him, closing the door behind them, and heads for the elevator. They'll meet Maximus and Wyatt at the ground floor.

"That might be a good idea," he replies easily, trying not to dread the evening ahead of them. For their polished wardrobe, they both look a mess, to varying degrees. Like teenage hooligans forced to clean themselves up before supper.

Instead of dwelling upon that, however, he lets the practicality of we thought consume him. As the Capitol grows more aware of Joly's idiosyncrasies, he can only assume that they will be abused to the detriment of the entire group. It's in all of their best interests that he learn to control them, his potential embarrassment be damned. "Yes, I think you should speak to him about it. Joly is a doctor, but medicine is very different in our time. He will need to adapt in many ways, but it is a challenge to which I do not think he will be disinclined."

He barely has time to extrapolate further before the elevator arrives. There would be no escape from it now.

Maximus had received the message, requesting his and Wyatt's presence for dinner that evening, and had been more than happy to accept. He had been worrying, lowly, over Venus, and the opportunity to see her and ascertain her health was a welcome one.

He'd passed the word onto Wyatt, and was waiting for all three of them in the lobby, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

He smiled when he saw Venus, pulling off the wall - but the smile slipped from his lips when he saw who she was with, and gave them both a short, terse nod instead.

"Venus. Enjolras."

Wyatt was incredulous, surprised that Venus would include him, but willing when Max had informed him of the woman's request. He even tolerated a primping and polishing from his escort - who'd seemed thrilled by the idea that he was making friends with a tribute such as Venus - though it meant he was arriving a touch late, his elevator arriving moments after the pair from three.

Hat in hand, hair neatly combed, fresh still damp from his shave, he glanced around the lobby - mouth curling as he caught Max's eye... then thinning again as he recognized the blond on Venus' arm.

He paused a moment, glancing back at Max, then, with a fortifying breath, approached.

"Miss Venus," he greeted, politely enough, head tipping to her.

He'd never been introduced to the man, so opted just to offer him a safe, silent nod.

Seeing Max for the first time since the Arena is a welcome relief, and she offers him an embrace. Of everyone in the Capitol, he probably understands her best, and often it seems to work the same in reverse. Few would be so presumptuous with the gladiator, but Venus thinks nothing of it.

By contrast, she's only met Wyatt once, and in circumstances that, while they were certainly amicable, were not the sort that bond closeness. Not yet.

This outing is a bit of a tightrope act, trying to balance hurt feelings and egos and protectiveness and rhetorical missteps for a mutual goal. Venus has spent a while looking at her map today, memorizing certain places. The purposes of this meeting are hardly solely social.

"Maximus. Wyatt." Her voice distinguishes the difference between firmness and coldness - there's a certain we're all going to get along flavor to it that's not a request, nor is it a command. "Wyatt, I don't think you've met Enjolras."

The terseness of the other two men doesn't escape him, but he can't blame them either. He hadn't exactly managed to make the best impression.

Nevertheless, if the other couple's demeanor is unmissable, then so is the underlying tone to Venus's words. It's as if she's willing the evening to go well, and tempted though he might be to adopt his own brusque veneer, he would purposefully disappoint her like that.

Which isn't to say that he won't end up disappointing her in other ways. Enjolras knows himself well enough to recognize that, but he can at least make an effort.

And so it's with a certain purposeful politeness that he extends a hand for Wyatt to shake. There's a trained sort of smile on his face, not eager enough to be friendly, but existent so as to avoid being rude. "Only in passing, if ever. The pleasure is mine, Monsieur."

Maximus relaxes slightly when he is offered the embrace, and returns it, if a little stiffly, letting go only after a gentle squeeze to her arm.

"You look well," He murmured to her as Enjolras and Wyatt exchanged pleasantries.

Recognizing Venus' tone and respecting her as he did - and wanting to make Max happy - Wyatt did his damnedest to play along. Resisting the urge to comment on Enjolras' pleasure as he reached out to meet the young man's hand.

"Nice to be able to put a name to the face," he said as he shook. A cool sort of statement, but an honest one at least.

His eyes moved over the face in question, taking in the angry cut, the dark purple of the bruising, and his mouth thinned, but he held on his tongue on that as well.

Edited 2014-03-15 18:01 (UTC)

"And what a pretty face he has," Venus says with a grin, pointing out the elephant in the room. She takes Enjolras' hand again, giving it one of those reassuring squeezes that pulses out of her like a heartbeat these days. It's a state of comfort for her, her hand in his.

"I picked a restaurant, I hope none of you are disinclined to the Speakeasy?" Her accent on 'disinclined' closely matches Wyatt's, although it's all hers. "I was hoping for something a little lively. Besides, the paparazzi are going to want to crawl all over us if we go anywhere too fancy."

As it stands, they'll still have to be careful - with the Capitol's preoccupation with all their romantic lives, this is the equivalent of Brangelina and Bennifer going out on a date together, and will surely end up at the very least in some columns the next day.

For his part, Enjolras is willing to defer to her better judgment on this. Experience has proven well enough and, in fact, many times over, that Venus is slightly more adept at navigating the intricacies of Capitol media than he is. Than any of them present, actually, he'd even be willing to wager. He nods along, passively, but not unpleasantly, letting the feeling of their hands pressed together ease the awkwardness of the evening to come.

And she's right. Even if it doesn't come from anyone gathered for dinner, there will be any number of eyes on them. It isn't a matter of avoidance so much as of purposefully ignoring them.

"The Speakeasy suits me well enough, so long as it meets with your approval, gentlemen." The ball is quite securely in the other couple's court. Frankly, he's rather enjoying this experiment in servility.

"Yes, of course," Maximus said, unable to forget Wyatt's whispered words to him, in that dream. The backrooms, where the Capitol couldn't hear....

He didn't imagine that Venus meant them, however, or even knew about them, and he certainly wasn't going to say anything about them. Wyatt had entrusted him with his life, by giving him that information, he wasn't about to give it up easily.

Wyatt's eyebrows twitched, jumping in surprise at the suggestion, but only because he hadn't expected that to be the choice. Not because he figured Venus and her friend had any ulterior motives.

On it's face the Speakeasy was a good place for tributes -- it wasn't any near as uncomfortable as some could be, showing footage and poking at them. There were very few who knew what the Speakeasy was really about, and he imagined it had been chosen tonight purely for the former.

"Ya won't hear any complaint from me," he told Venus. "I'm quite fond of it."

"You'll have to tell me what to get, then, Mr. Earp." And they're off, a gaggle of Mentors and Tributes. Venus doesn't take the lead, having asserted herself as the driving force of this double-date already, and she keeps tight to Enjolras' hand. "We should get one of the booths, if you guys don't mind me turning down a private room."

The benefit to the Speakeasy is the cloud of chatter obscuring everything else. A private room would simply provide ample footage for anyone who wanted to overhear them. Her shoes make little clacking noises as she walks, and she keeps her eyes open for signs of graffiti.

"So, Enj and I are a bit new at this, do you two have any advice for relationships here in the City?" Wyatt and Maximus have been doing well for themselves so far here.

He nearly chokes at that particular angle on smalltalk. The weather is a perfectly suitable subject, or any of the annoyances to life under intense observation, why did she have to go with that? It's foreign territory to him and the consideration of it doesn't come without a pang of insecurity. Perhaps she's asking because she's already been dissatisfied by his clumsy attempts at their relationship.

Still her hand is still comfortably in his and their arms swing together as they walk with the other men through the streets. That probably means something. "Yes, we would be indebted to you for any advice at all. I had yet to hear of these peculiar Valentine's day customs and I fear another such event."

Of all the questions he was expecting to be asked, that was far from it - especially not to have it repeated by Enjolras.

He frowned, wondering if this was one of the man's attempts to 'use' his relationship with Venus.

He hadn't forgotten that conversation.

"I'm hardly the man to ask for advice," He said stiffly.

"What's there to say?"

Wyatt glanced at the man at beside him from the corner of his eye, the touch brief and small - a brush of knuckles against the back of a hand.

"They're goin' do an' say whatever they please 'bout it. What matters is what you've got to say."

Venus thinks that not naive, but stubbornly deluded. People will talk, yes, but they can be directed. She was asking not about the media cycle, which she feels relatively at home with, but about how it was they managed to become stronger through the stressors of the city rather than being pulled apart. It's their bond she was poking around, not the image. She's eager for advice that doesn't come from her magazines, and hasn't had the best role models to look to.

She ducks her head down and tries not to look upset at the brush-off by the two men, for her transgression there, for Enjolras' initial balk.

"I know how to handle people's chatter," she says. "I know the both of you find it distasteful, but I just try to be practical about it."

It's a precarious position, to be putting her emotions on the line in a scenario where she is so clearly out of her element. Her attempts to make it smooth have the possibility of backfiring.

Easing into their relationship though they are, Enjolras can still sense we abrupt uncertainty and gives Venus' hand a gentle squeeze of reassurance. It must be difficult for her to balance three people who clearly don't want to be there. Really, she's doing admirably. Anyone else would tremble and give up a the assortment of stubborn museum exhibits she's managed to gather together.

And, although she took Wyatt's words as a furthering of Maximus' terse brush off, something about them captured Enjolras' attention. "You are expressing your freedom by ignoring them and acting in your own interests. I admire that, Monsieur."

Okay, so maybe Wyatt hadn't meant it in quite that regard, but interpretation is never an easy thing.

He feels bad, as soon as he sees Venus' reaction, and as Enjolras takes a moment to speak to Wyatt, he ducks in his head towards hers, and speaks in a low voice.

"I merely take it as it comes, and take every moment as if it is my last, and I wish to share my last with him." It was honest, but it was sappy, and he hopes neither Enjolras or Wyatt overheard him.

It was an odd, momentary, drifting. The lines in the sand blurring, crossing as Max leaned toward Venus and Wyatt slowed a step to match Enjolras.

"It ain't so much 'bout rebellin' or defyin' anybody," he told the younger man, eyes steady on his face but for the moment they glanced away to make sure the woman passing on his other side had enough room.

He paused a moment, words as ever slippery. Still, somehow, never quite enough for what he wanted to say.

"They've taken everythin' else. ...They can put me in the arena, have me killed, but they can't take that. They won't take that."

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