thecapitol | [closed]

Entry tags:

[closed]

Who| Cecil and Carlos
What| Short version: A horrible misunderstanding about bidding that ends not so horribly.
Longer version: Cecil "bids" on Tributes -- as in, he uses the bidding system to get their time for a few hours to interview them. Carlos only heard that Cecil bids, and has been distant ever since. Obviously, the solution is for Cecil to get Carlos in for an interview Carlos can't run away from, and which Carlos jumps to the worst conclusion about.
Where| From the Tribute center to Cecil's apartment
When| The weekend after the crowning.
Warnings/Notes| Discussion of sexual assault, but no actual sexual assault. Also, anyone is free to see Carlos being marched out of the tower by peacekeepers.

It was Saturday morning when Carlos was told he had an appointment that evening. What kind of appointment? he had asked.

You've been bid on.

Carlos would be lying if he said it had been a surprise; he had been expecting -- no, dreading this since he had found out that it was done at all. Apparently, cutting his hair and being dressed as an unflattering caricature of a scientist had not been enough to discourage someone in the Capitol. Carlos could stomach a lot from the Capitol -- the surveillance, the tyrannical laws, even the death matches -- but this infringement on his own autonomy, this violation of his right to make decisions, made him angry. And it made him want to crawl out of his skin, like Laura Fisher from the PTA had that one time. It had looked painful, and bloody, and extremely unsanitary, but Carlos still found himself wishing he could do it.

It was in quiet anger that he let himself be washed and dressed; at least they let him keep his lab coat. It was a small mercy, but it helped Carlos keep his head high as he was marched down the street by two uniformed Peacekeepers. Even if he wasn't being treated like one -- even if he felt uncomfortable in his own skin and anxious enough that his stomach was spinning sickly -- he was a scientist.

He was escorted to the door of an unfamiliar apartment, one clearly belonging to a Capitol citizen. "Excuse me," he said in a tight voice to one of the Peacekeepers. "Who lives here?"

"Cecil Palmer," the Peacekeeper replied, and Carlos felt his stomach drop. The sullen anger felt different now -- it felt like betrayal.

But he was composed, when the door opened: Carlos's shoulders were squared, his hands steady, his gaze level. He fixed Cecil Palmer with a resolute look, one that was strong enough to hide the disgust he felt. Carlos would do this -- he had no choice. But he wouldn't play along. He wouldn't pretend to be happy about it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Cecil had fought with himself over this for days before placing this bid. His interview with Kankri had gone so well, he'd never had any doubt that he was going to bid again - but deciding to place one on Carlos had come with other considerations. It wasn't that he didn't want to spend time with Carlos, or that he didn't think Carlos would make an absolutely fantastic interview subject! But, well, he was perfectly aware that his not-terribly-discreet affection for Carlos might make a bid look... unprofessional.

In the end, it had been Carlos himself who had driven him to it. Sure, their coffeeshop meetings were great, but Carlos never seemed to want to talk about himself. Questions about his personal life, about the strange place he'd come from, and about his time in the Arena were always answered in sentences so short and vague they wouldn't even make for a good soundbite on the air. Cecil had thought-- well, maybe if he were obligated to stay-- maybe if the atmosphere were a little more comfortable-- maybe if he went through an official channel-- Carlos might be a little more forthcoming.

...Not that he wasn't excited about other things, too, like Carlos standing in his living room, and sitting on his couch, and eating his food, and meeting his cat! But it was, from the beginning, intended to be a professional meeting. Really. Seriously.

This was why Cecil was dressed up for the occasion. The marble patches on his skin were gone, replaced in recent days with faint tiger stripes running up his forearms (inspired by Guy Crood). He'd decided to keep it simple, in the best-fitting of his Celebrus! Capitol Community Radio shirts (as a reminder of the professional nature of this meeting) and a pair of baggy pants that seemed to be covered entirely in downy white cotton balls.

"Carlos!" Cecil was beaming when he opened the door, eagerness bursting from every seam. "I've been waiting!" He paused. "--Not that you're late or anything, but, you know. I've been here. Is what I mean. Looking forward to your visit." Cecil. "...Come in!"

He stepped back to let Carlos in, giving the peacekeepers a nod that he hoped indicated to them that they were free to leave.

The situation as Cecil saw it and the situation as Carlos saw it were two vastly different things. Carlos saw all this through a filter of disgusted apprehension, assumed meanings that weren't there -- waiting? how long have you been planning to do this? He even assumed the worst about the simple choice of clothes: nothing too complicated, Carlos noted, nothing that would get in the way.

He stepped through the door, back straight, but folded his arms once he was inside: his body language was closed-off but also angry. Carlos waited for the peacekeepers to leave and the door to shut, then fixed Cecil with a look.

Carlos said nothing; he was going to make Cecil explain. Let Cecil tell him to his face what Carlos had just been municipally ordered to do.

He would also, Carlos thought, really like to stop being surprised by what Cecil was capable of. First the Arena, now this -- he really needed to stop assuming that things were beyond Cecil. It left him unprepared for these situations.

It hadn't occurred to Cecil to consider what this entire situation looked like to Carlos. He was not in the habit of keeping his intentions a secret - after all, his job was to tell people things! Half the Capitol was aware of his opinions about pretty much everything, all the time. He did not consider himself easy to misinterpret; he did not think about how the things he said could be misinterpreted.

For that reason, he didn't understand why Carlos was looking at him like that. Why he looked... angry. He always seemed cheerful enough when they went out for coffee together. And they were between Arenas! So it wasn't like Cecil could have interrupted him in the middle of something really important.

"Uh," he said, in the hope that conversation would diffuse the bristling tension in the air. "So! This is... my place!" He indicated the apartment around them with a vague wave of his hand. It was bright and spacious and modern, and everything about the decor screamed overinvestment in the Hunger Games. ...That, and fondness for shades of violet. "It's not quite as luxurious as the District suites, I know, but not all celebrity comes with free lodgings!" He chuckled. "Anyway, I find a more relaxed environment helps Tributes to... open up." He smiled, completely oblivious to how this would inevitably be taken.

...If he stood still much longer, he realized, he was going to start fidgeting under Carlos' gaze. "...So. If you'd like to sit down, I can bring you something to drink! Before we begin."

For a moment, the prospect of a strong alcoholic drink or three tempted him. Would that make this easier?

No, he decided; putting it off would only make it worse, and he didn't want alcohol to dull the edge of his anger. Carlos was being wronged, and he wouldn't pretend he wasn't, not for a second -- he would remember it. The uncertainty left his face.

"Actually, I'd rather get it over with," he said, trying not to think about how many Tributes Cecil had put through this already. Everything about this was sickening, but if he was lucky, it would be over quickly. Then, maybe, he'd let himself drink.

"...Oh. Well-- that's fine, too." Jeez. Get it over with?

Uncertainty was starting to show in Cecil's expression now - he'd pictured this being... well, rather friendlier. A drink or two, some casual conversation-- a breaking of the ice, as it were, before switching on the microphone and getting to the real meat of the interview. Carlos had been sort of distant in recent weeks, but this was... well, he might have called it hostile, had he any reason whatsoever to expect hostility on Carlos' part.

But he kept his smile up and took a step back, inviting Carlos further in and indicating with a glance the large, plush couch visible in the next room. "--Well! I hope it's all right that we do this in the living room. I mean, if you'd prefer somewhere else, of course that's okay. Your comfort, after all, is paramount!" He'd learned his lesson about that (or so he thought) after Kankri. "But the living room is where I set up the microphone."

Carlos's jaw just about hit the floor. All the horror he'd kept hidden under angry composure shot right to the surface as the realization hit: he's going to RECORD this.

"No--" It slipped out before he could stop it, before he could think about whether or not he was allowed to refuse anything, to dictate any sort of terms at all. "I understand I don't have a choice about this, but I draw the line at -- at letting you tape it. No."

He hoped this wouldn't get him into trouble -- he hoped that whatever twisted attachment Cecil felt for him would keep Cecil from reporting him to the peacekeepers for misbehavior. But he had to try. He couldn't stand the thought of a recording of this existing.

Far from looking affronted by Carlos' presumption, Cecil just looked... confused. He laughed, uncertainly - as though what Carlos said had to have been a joke. As though there were no other way to understand it.

"Well, I mean--!" His smile was bemused, but he clung to it. "I am a broadcast journalist, Carlos. I record things of interest to the community, and put them on the air! It's my job." He shrugged, a little helplessly. "So, recording it is... sort of the point!"

...a --

Wait. Cecil was weird, true, but an honest belief that a -- a sex tape was of interest to the community was farfetched even for him.

Carlos was still very guarded, but his expression turned skeptical.

"Cecil," he said slowly, "what did you bring me here to do?"

"Well, I'd hoped that we could just-- talk," he said, in the tones of one who did not altogether understand where the problem with this was. "About Night Vale, or the Capitol, or the process of recovering from your recent intimate brush with the unending oblivion that comes for us all-- you know. The kinds of things everyone wants a Tribute's opinion on! Just a conversation like any other-- like many we have had, in restaurants and coffeeshops and at parties-- only in my living room, and in front of a microphone." And with the added element of a monetary reward, though he thought it might be tacky to bring that up now. This was, after all, a professional meeting.

"You're free to look over the question sheet first, if you'd like," he added, "and to edit it as you see fit. Like I said-- your comfort is paramount!" And finally, a little less professionally-- "...Also, I made dinner. But I thought that could wait until after the interview."

"Just dinner," repeated Carlos, in the tone of someone who wasn't sure he believed his ears. Someone who, while not doubting the scientific functionality of his ears, wasn't sure that what he was hearing could be trusted. It wasn't the sound waves, but the world they traveled through, that he mistrusted. "That was -- all?"

His hopes were not up. His hopes did not dare to be up. His hopes were still cowering somewhere underneath the couch over there, still very much convinced that this misunderstanding was a misunderstanding and he'd really understood right all along. After all, why else would he be escorted here by peacekeepers?

"I mean, if you wanted to stay after dinner, I did pick up a bottle of wine, and a couple of movies, and dessert." Spoken innocently, and implying no compulsion outside of his own hope (though he was very hopeful). "But the bid runs out at nine-thirty, as I'm sure the peacekeepers informed you-- so, anything you do after that is entirely up to you." Naturally.

And then, still bemused, but ready to laugh at whatever Carlos' answer was: "Seriously, Carlos-- what did you think you were here for?"

You had to be kidding. You had to be kidding.

Carlos just stared, letting stunned silence pool around them.

"I know what bidding is, Cecil," he said, finally, still angry. "I was marched to your apartment by peacekeepers. The logical conclusion is -- well, you know what it is."

Slowly, comprehension dawned.

Cecil's expression turned from confused, to understanding, to shocked, to horrified, to disbelieving-- and not quickly, either, every emotion given full expression before moving into the next.

"Carlos," he said, finally, and his face had settled on disbelief. "Carlos, did you really think that I would--"

...Of course he had. What else should he think? If no one in his escort of peacekeepers had explained-- if he had somehow managed to miss the fact that it was the radio station that paid Cecil's bids-- and he hadn't sent an invitation this time. He hadn't thought he'd need to. Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, foolish Cecil!

"No," he said, emphatically. "No, Carlos, that is not it. That is not it at all."

"Then what is it?" asked Carlos, irritably. Either Cecil was about to commit sexual assault, or Carlos had been marched here by peacekeepers under the assumption that he would be sexually assaulted, and honestly, either one would be enough to make him angry.

"Cecil, why am I here?"

He wanted to be told directly, wanted to get it straight -- no more guessing, no more assumptions. Then, because this was Cecil, and Carlos wasn't in the mood for digressions, he went on:

"I don't mean philosophically, I mean specifically here, in your apartment."

Edited 2014-05-06 17:22 (UTC)

Oh. Well, that did make the question rather simpler to answer.

He was going to spell this out. He was going to make this perfectly clear. Clear as the air between them. Clear as the void of the sky, through whose perfect transparency only distance could hope to hide them from the stars. He faced Carlos and spoke as slowly and clearly as if he were on the air.

"You are here, Carlos, because sometimes, Tributes' time is rather difficult to get ahold of! Even for professional radio hosts. You are here because sometimes, this forces professional radio hosts to find less... orthodox ways to seek direct on-air communication with those Tributes whom they find particularly compelling." He leveled a knowing look at Carlos. "...Especially, it should be noted, when said Tributes have a tendency to skirt certain topics in their conversations with professional radio hosts-- for example when they are out for coffee together, and the professional radio host asks a perfectly innocuous question about that Tribute's home world, which the Tribute than pretends not to hear. Four times."

He paused. Was that it? ...No. Not quite. "...And, also, because sometimes professional radio hosts do not have salaries that allow them to compensate said Tributes for their time from their own pockets, which, though perhaps less shallow than they recently have been, are by no means deep. And, as it would be highly unprofessional to demand a Tribute's time on-air without offering compensation, professional radio hosts must sometimes seek methods for which station management is willing to compensate them." Like bidding.

He let that hang, pleased with himself; that was everything! That was nothing short of perfect transparency. Way to salvage that one, Cecil. "In short: You are here, Carlos, for an interview."

It felt, a little, like time slowing down. The amount of disbelieving anger, coupled with the tenuous beginnings of utter relief, made him hyperconscious of his own body. Carlos felt every beat of his heart, and the space between them felt like an eternity.

I could hit him, was a very clear thought in Carlos's head, if hitting were not incongruous with what a scientist is, and if I wouldn't be dragged away by the police for assaulting a citizen.

So he doesn't.

He takes a deep, calming breath, reminds himself that the situation is not as bad as it could be, and says instead, "Why didn't you let me know? You should have told me before I was brought here, Cecil."

"You know, I considered it!" This was spoken earnestly-- look, he really did put some thought into this! "I was going to send an invitation. But then I thought, well, maybe not, since that was such a colossal failure with Kankri." He rolled his eyes (clearly at himself, not at Kankri). "And, while I have every confidence in your ability to read the written language of Panem, I thought, well, there could be something else I'm missing - maybe invitations are considered really rude in Night Vale! When dealing with inhabitants of other dimensions, it's very important to avoid giving offense due to lack of cultural understanding." This, too, he had learned from Kankri.

"...So, sorry." He had the distinct feeling nothing he'd said so far had done anything to assuage Carlos' anger. "I just-- figured it would be better to explain here, in person." He watched Carlos' expression, his posture, anxious to see his explanation accepted.

It wasn't.

It very clearly wasn't.

Carlos, it bore saying, was a very nonviolent person. He believed very strongly that if he had a problem with someone, it was best solved with words, and that violence only created more problems. He hadn't hit anyone since -- well, he couldn't really remember hitting anyone.

But oh, the thought was tempting.

"No, Cecil," Carlos gritted out -- his perfect teeth weren't clenched but the tension in his face left each word perfectly enunciated -- "no, it wasn't better. Do you have any idea what the walk here was like? You understand what I thought was going to happen, right? You let me think you were going to--" He hissed out the rest of that breath, letting it swallow the rest of that sentence. "I can't believe you thought that being rude was the problem, here."

Although the words were spoken, not shouted, they were absolutely furious.

Cecil had never seen Carlos so angry. Granted, they hadn't known each other terribly long, and their interactions had been for the most part fairly casual, so this was probably understandable! But Cecil didn't need to know Carlos any better than he did to know that he was furious.

His eyes widened as Carlos spoke. He could well imagine it - imagine walking here, convinced that someone who called him a friend was going to-- to-- ...no, he was going to stop imagining it, because that was simply unthinkable.

Somehow, he realized, that Carlos should have made that particular assumption about his intentions had not occurred to him. But it wasn't only because Cecil had been raised in the Capitol's culture of cheerful, lavish exploitation; it wasn't that he was so thoughtless, not really (...To some degree, at least). No, much of it was that the idea of paying for Carlos' forced consent to anything more personal than an interview had never once been on the table for Cecil-- it was simply not an aspect of the bidding process he would ever have considered. And if Cecil did not consider it an option, how could the person on whom he was bidding consider it one?

The look on Carlos' face told him exactly what an oversight that had been.

"Carlos," he said, and his tone said that finally, he understood the gravity of his mistake. "Carlos, I-- that was never my intention! I would not ask that of you, not under any circumstances!" His words were quick, and his voice was no longer measured. "Did you really think that I would-- that I would make such a, a personal demand on your time?"

Edited (doop accidentally hit send) 2014-05-11 20:21 (UTC)

Carlos exhaled -- at least this had gotten through to Cecil. Carlos was used to not getting through to Cecil, and often gave it up as a lost cause, but if Cecil didn't get this, it would have been very personally upsetting.

"How could I have thought it was anything else?" Carlos asked, almost hopelessly. "The practice is accepted here, Cecil, and--" And I know how deeply you internalize your community's values, he did not say, but clearly thought. "And I'll say this for Night Vale. Many terrible things happen there, and not all of them are scientifically unexplainable. Sometimes they are municipally approved, or practiced by the general medical community, or just a group of people in a warehouse with crowbars and ice picks who have the wrong person..." He trailed off for a moment, then quickly brought his concentration back to the moment. "But you see the point is, even in Night Vale where you can be arrested for literally anything, I have never seen anyone forced to sleep with someone against their will. And I have never seen anyone try to justify it."

Perhaps that was why this shook him as hard as it did: violent crime, misuse of power, Orwellian surveillance, all of those were things he'd seen a hundred times, things he'd been desensitized to. But for all of Night Vale's legal injustices and cosmic terrors, rape had never been among them. The constant threat of it was what Carlos hated most about being in the Capitol -- it was the one thing he couldn't stomach.

At the words forced to sleep with someone against their will, Cecil's frown deepened. Something in him wanted to protest that. Something in him resisted the truth of those words. No, he wanted to say, That's not what it is! That isn't what it's about.

In Cecil's mind, there was a certain kind of person who bid in that particular way. They were the untouchably wealthy; the distantly powerful; those people in the Capitol who could make demands and never expect to hear a no, whether or not the yes was compulsory. Cecil was not one of those people; he never had been, and could be assured that he never would be. To be mistaken for one of them was... off-putting. Uncomfortable. Absurd.

Uncomfortable as well was the fact that... well. That he had no other defense to offer. He could think of several ways to try to explain the system, all rephrasings of the way it had been put to him. Look, Carlos, I understand your discomfort, but bidding allows our citizens to engage more fully with our Tributes. No. That is-- it's the best way for our Victors to give back to give back to the society that gave them so much. Ugh. I mean, historically speaking, through the act of rebellion, the Districts themselves made necessary the Capitol's total control over every aspect of their lives!

...He sighed. The words didn't sound right. They applied to another time-- another era in the history of the Hunger Games. None of the blithe justifications he knew could excuse what Carlos had believed about him. But he didn't think he had it in him to condemn the entire Capitol, to apologize for the system being what it was.

He shook his head, and let the attempt at an explanation die. "...I cannot justify it," he said. "It is a practice older than me, Carlos, and already justified by many who are no longer alive to see what it is now, that it was not then." The Games had changed, after all. The Games, now, were always changing. "I do not know what about it was once considered justifiable. I do not know what someone older and more knowledgeable than I am might have said to you in place of the words that I am saying now. There are many things that I do not know."

He made that last admission with his eyes on the floor at Carlos' feet. But when he spoke again, he looked up into Carlos' face, and his expression was... intent. Genuine. "I know that there is little in this, or in any world, about which any of us can be certain. But Carlos-- you may be certain that you are safe here with me." If it was the only comfort he could offer, he would offer it with every fiber of his being. "And you may be certain that I will not, and would not, ask anything of you with the expectation that you should be unable to refuse me."

Not much of a promise, in the face of Carlos' greater fear; but it was the only one he could be assured that he could keep.

No, it wasn't much of a promise. Carlos was open to bidding, he knew that, and nothing he did seemed to convince the Capitol to take him off that list. However, it was relieving to know that Cecil, who up until now had been the Capitol citizen Carlos considered most likely to bid on him, would not.

It was also relieving to know that Cecil Palmer was not the kind of person who did.

Carlos let out a breath. He had been half-expecting -- no, more than half, he had been expecting Cecil to try to justify it, because that was what Cecil did: the black vans keep us safe; the pulsar will be used to light the stadium; how would the petting zoo wolves have satisfactory meats without citizen sacrifice? Even here, Cecil was not condemning the system -- Carlos realized that. But not hearing Cecil tell him, to his face, right now, that bidding was municipally-approved and therefore unquestionably all right was...well, it wasn't much, but it was, at least, thoughtful. Cecil had made an admission of uncertainty about his government because he understood something about Carlos's situation -- from the sound of it, he was almost questioning the legitimacy of the current bidding system. That, juxtaposed with the familiarity of the admission that there was so much that Cecil did not know, eased most of Carlos's anger.

Most of it. He was no longer angry with Cecil; Cecil was forgiven, but the Capitol was not.

"I believe you, Cecil," he said, and his tone was quieter, softer than Cecil had heard it before. There was silence for a moment as Carlos's muscles began to unknot themselves, as his posture relaxed. When he spoke again, the words were brisk; he spoke now more like what Cecil was used to, professional and matter-of-fact. "But next time, please be clear about what you're expecting, especially in delicate situations like this. And be sure to send invitations to anyone else you bid on. I don't want anyone else to misunderstand your, um, intentions."

Edited 2014-05-19 21:29 (UTC)

Cecil did not like to think about the things he did not know. Very often, things he did not know intersected with, closely resembled, or outright were things that he was not meant to know. Things he was not permitted to know. Cecil liked to know things as much as the next person; but the line between healthy inquisitiveness and subversion could be a fine one. A very fine one. His admission to Carlos - the admission that the system might be in some way imperfect - was as close an approach to that line as he was presently willing to make.

But he buried his own discomfort under his relief - as frustrating as Carlos' professionalism could be, it was... well, as close to normal as he knew. And it was, at least, far from being anger. "Oh, don't worry!" he replied quickly. "I have definitely learned my lesson there. Two misunderstandings is more than enough." The grin he tacked onto the end of the sentence was not terribly confident, but the intention was clear - the mood had shifted. This was better.

He hesitated, as though he were considering whether or not to speak again. In the end, he did, because that was the decision he was most in the habit of making. "...About the interview," he said, finally, and there was a reflection of Carlos' own professionalism in it. "I understand if you, uh-- if perhaps now is not the most... opportune time. Particularly in light of our very recent discussion of certain questions of intent, and the... nature of the also-very-recent misunderstanding that prompted that discussion." He rattled that part off quickly, because hey! They'd just been over that! No point dwelling in the past, no matter how immediate! "But, well, I did make dinner! And if you wanted to, I would certainly not be opposed to sharing it with you! As originally planned. Not, of course, that it is necessary to stick to the original plan. I just-- thought I'd ask."

There was absolutely no coercion in the question; there was barely even any hope. "...Would you like to stay?"

Did he want to stay?

Carlos wasn't sure. His mind was buzzing, his emotions running high -- he couldn't actually answer that right now. He needed to clear his head first.

He drew in a breath. "...can I have a minute?" he asked. "I'm sorry, Cecil, but I need to think about this, and I'd like some time alone, if that's all right."

"Yes! That's fine. That is totally fine." Cecil threw a glance over his shoulder, and decided that there was definitely something he could be doing in the kitchen at this moment. "Just-- make yourself comfortable! I'll be here. Whenever you decide. No pressure! Take your time."

He indicated with a vague gesture that the living room was open for Carlos' use and retreated to the kitchen, where a cranberry-and-kale salad waited on the counter, ready to accompany the curry-baked alligator steaks warming in the oven. (Khoshekh was in the kitchen, too, lying draped across most of the chair that Carlos would have been sitting in, had this afternoon gone even remotely as planned.)

He moved pots and pans around in a manner that suggested he was doing something with them, and tried not to sound like he was listening for any movement from Carlos in the other room, though this was in actuality exactly what he was doing. He didn't want to sound impatient; didn't want to sound like he was reliving every second of Carlos' arrival from Carlos' point of view and rapidly losing hope that this situation was salvageable.

Really, at this point, he was less concerned that Carlos would stay for dinner, and more concerned that he would never come back at all.

SAILS IN A MONTH LATE

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