thecapitol | Today's log brought to you by the letter "C!" C, as in Closed!

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Today's log brought to you by the letter "C!" C, as in Closed!

WHO| Carlos, Cecil, and a ｃamera ｃrew
WHAT| A chat. Carlos has been given a break from working on the disease to see -- right, that guy he confessed love for in the Arena. Too bad it wasn't true.
WHEN| Late last week, before Carlos makes his discovery.
WHERE| In the Capitol! Outside the Speakeasy, then inside the Speakeasy.
WARNINGS| Huge, horrendous amounts of awkward. This is a painful truth. Also, the first part of this log IS televised. Feel free to assume your character has seen it.

Carlos stood, trying not to fidget, on the curb next to the Speakeasy. He had it on good authority that this was the one building in the Capitol where you could have a private talk -- a really private talk, without the Capitol listening in on you. Carlos needed a place like that. The deception he was about to discuss wasn't just for the Capitol's citizens. It was important that the administration swallow it, as well.

But oh, god, was he not looking forward to discussing it.

The camera crews didn't help. They knew exactly why Carlos had been allowed out of the lab and who this appointment was with, and were eagerly asking him question after question.

"Of course I'm looking forward to seeing him--"

"--no, I haven't seen him since before the Arena--"

"--yes, I really thought I was going to die--"

"--thank you--"

"--I'm sorry to hear that, I didn't mean to make anyone cry--"

"--excuse me, but I've been working on identifying a very important disease -- isn't anybody going to ask me about that?"

"--listen, thank you, but I'd really rather not answer any more questions. I'm just here to meet Cecil..."

Carlos couldn't hear anyone's approach, not over the clamor of the press, so he looked around for Cecil instead. With any luck, this place's bouncers would keep the reporters out. It was part of why Carlos had chosen it. Carlos knew he ought to look excited: after all, he was seeing the man he was purportedly in love with for the first time in over a month. Really, though, he just felt sick. Sick, and guilty.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Carlos did not allow himself to speculate what exactly Cecil would do after Carlos left. He also did not allow himself to think about what the media would think that he and Cecil were doing during that half hour. Neither of those were things Carlos needed to know, and both made him feel that guilty surge again.

He nodded, and took the hand, and stood. Carlos schooled his face into a neutral expression, and tried to ignore the novelty of holding Cecil Palmer's hand.

But before they left, Carlos gave Cecil one more look -- are you sure? that look asked. This is our last chance to plan something else.

In response, Cecil smiled.

It was a wide, bright, adoring smile, all the force of its beam trained on Carlos and no one and nothing but Carlos. It was a smile that had just been told marvelous and long-awaited things. It was a smile that could think of no reason not to be happy.

As an expression of eager and heartfelt affection, it was utterly without seam. Cecil, it said, was committed to this. He had made his decision, and there would be nothing halfhearted in his act. (Because he had to do this now, and completely, or not at all. Because hesitating would remind him of the many choices still open to him, and hesitation might make an easier one far, far too feasible. Because he simply didn't want to talk about this anymore.)

He laced his fingers with Carlos' and gave his hand a squeeze. "Come on," he said, already working into his voice the tones of one who had not experienced the past fifteen minutes as they had actually happened. "I bet those cameras are still out there! And while they will almost certainly pretend that they haven't waiting for us specifically, they totally have been, and we should respect that."

His smile stayed fixed in place as he turned to move toward the door.

Carlos's heart sank. Of course this was metaphorical, and his heart actually stayed in the exact same place relative to his body that it had always been, but it felt about three times as heavy as usual. Through that heavy heart, he attempted a smile of his own: quieter, shyer, and a little sad. It hardly looked forced at all as he followed Cecil out of the bar and into the light of the afternoon.

The next few days passed like a whirlwind for Carlos. In between work on those diseases, he was finding time -- making time -- for his boyfriend. Carlos was now allowed to go three places: to the Tribute Center, to the lab, and to Cecil Palmer's arm. Carlos wasn't the only one with a vested interest in being seen with Cecil: the Capitol apparently thought that he set a good example and was eager to show off how native he had gone.

Right now, Cecil Palmer was at the Capitol Art Museum, so Carlos was allowed there, too. Carlos was still in a respirator most of the time, though he took it off for meals, since that was polite. He also took it off to kiss Cecil, something that was happening with alarming frequency. Today, for instance, he would be taking it off when Cecil arrived.

He stood in the museum's lobby, flanked by peacekeepers that he was pretending weren't there, and scanned the crowd for his...well, his boyfriend.

Making time for Carlos was something Cecil had become accustomed to doing even before they had started... well. Dating. All he had to do now was make more time for Carlos. There were worse punishments, he supposed; that they were allowed so much time around each other probably spoke well of their deception.

And, honestly, it was easier than Cecil would have expected to keep up a bright smile in public; to watch Carlos sidelong with fondness in his eyes when he was distracted by something else; to run fingers absently through his hair when they sat close; to tug him close at opportune moments and press a kiss to his cheek, or to the back of his hand, or to his mouth. True, these things were easy mostly because they were all things that Cecil had done anyway, or had desperately wanted to do, before circumstances had turned them from distant hopes to nigh-unpalatable reality. But-- details.

He saw Carlos' detail of Peacekeepers first, from his place at the top of the low, wide staircase leading out of the lobby into the museum proper. It was a game of image association to which he was becoming accustomed, finding the only Peacekeepers in any space who were stationed next to a labcoat. His grin grew about three sizes when he caught sight of Carlos; he raised a hand (with two tickets in it) and waved.

"Carlos!" he called, in a way that would be attention-grabbing both for his boyfriend, and for the crowd around them, from whom he had to assume some level of investment. Peacekeepers (and quarantine regulations) kept people more or less out of their way; but, well, this was a public relationship, after all. (He did not think about the fact that Carlos would likely kiss him as soon as he'd ascended the stairs; he chose not to think about this in general, outside of the basic expectation that it would happen. It was easier that way.)

Carlos's face lit up. Fond smiles were getting easier for him, too: it felt almost natural now to respond to Cecil with a smile instead of distant professionalism.

It was a short climb to the top of the stairs. Though Carlos's smile was mostly hidden behind the respirator, it was clear in his eyes and his voice as he said, almost bashfully, "Hi, Cecil."

He was standing too close to Cecil to be casual; this was not, scientifically speaking, a just-friends distance. This proximity clearly said dating.

"Thanks for coming. I've been wanting to take a look at this museum for a while, but after that first Arena, it was kind of hard to make myself go," he said cheerfully, as though museums had not made him deeply uncomfortable for months. "But I'm feeling a lot better now, and I heard they had art from before the cataclysm that nearly destroyed your world. I'd really like to see it. It might confirm my suspicions that Panem is an alternate version of my own world, which, while not scientifically important, is a question that has personal importance to me."

"I haven't been here in years," Cecil said, casting a fond glance over the bright, open lobby. "I just haven't found the time! So, really, I should be thanking you for the opportunity." Truthfully, Cecil's appreciation of art had always been sort of vague, in the sense that he knew art was important and probably very interesting, but not so much so that he spent any amount of time looking at it himself.

A shame that they would be trailed by Peacekeepers the whole way, but the more private part of this date would come later. That was how they usually arranged it. "I have to admit, it seems difficult to imagine that Night Vale and Panem might have some distant, common dimensional ancestor-- but hey! Very, very few things are impossible." He wasn't quite ready to get so conditional as nothing is impossible. That felt like a lot of commitment.

"...Hello, by the way," he added after a pause, leaning in a little, and reaching with a smile for Carlos' hand. This would be, he thought, a good stopping place for a kiss-- a good dramatic beat. (These were the terms in which he had begun to think about these outings. As though he were reading off a script, and this was just a stage direction.) It would depend on whether Carlos felt like taking off his respirator at this particular, highly public moment.

Carlos was also getting good at picking out which moments were appropriate for which public displays of affection. It helped that he was paying a lot of attention to the cues Cecil gave him; normally, Carlos didn't notice that kind of thing. Funny how being in a life-and-death charade of a relationship changed things.

"Hello."

He smiled shyly at Cecil, then pulled his respirator off. Not completely off -- this wasn't nearly as dramatic as their first kiss had been -- but tucked down under his chin. He leaned in and met Cecil halfway, and a completely respectable three-second greeting kiss was exchanged. Carlos never really had the heart to feel anything while the kisses were happening; the looming knowledge that none of this was real weighed on him too heavily for that. (It was only later, after they had parted ways for the night, that the kissing bothered him.)

The kiss was a good one - brief, but familiar, implying that this happened more and at greater length when they didn't have other things to do. This was true; but Cecil liked implying it better than establishing the truth of the implication. There was much less that could go wrong there, emotionally.

"So!" he said brightly as they stepped apart, gripping Carlos' hand and taking the first steps into the museum proper. "I thought we could start in the modern sculpture section-- you know, the one with all the abstract furniture-- and then go through the pre-cataclysmic section right before lunch. Unless you'd rather see the latter first. I've just always liked these chairs they have-- like, they look like they're covered in eyes, and the eyes follow you around the room-- it's really cool."

This was how people on dates behaved-- they talked about mostly meaningless things, and exchanged a lot of light physical contact, and acted happier about each other's company than about any many-eyed chairs they had come to see. Cecil was, therefore, behaving exactly like a person on a date.

"The pre-cataclysm pieces are what I'm really interested in," Carlos admitted, "but we can look through the other sections too. I don't mind." He really didn't: the easy shrug of his shoulders and cheerful tone made that clear. He was on a date, and what he was really interested in was spending time with Cecil, right?

He laced his fingers through Cecil's a little shyly. This relationship was moving faster than Carlos was used to -- of course it was, it was for the cameras, it had to -- and holding hands was still kind of novel. Especially since it was Cecil Palmer he was holding hands with.

This was complicated.

He nodded his head forward. Lead on.

Cecil led from beside Carlos-- though at the first turn, he did not go in the direction that the signs indicated led to the abstract sculpture section. "Well, if you want to see the pre-cataclysm section first, then that's fine," Cecil said magnanimously. "After all-- you haven't been here before."

He leaned in to plant a brief kiss on Carlos' cheek, slowing his stride just for a step and giving Carlos' hand a squeeze. "Today is all about you."

This was something Cecil was fond of saying to people that he was on dates with, though his record of putting it into actual practice was patchy, at best. (Carlos may or may not have come to realize this by now.)

(Carlos had noticed. However, it was very important that he and Cecil got along on camera, and he didn't really mind letting Cecil run things. Usually it turned out all right.)

"Well, okay," he said agreeably. "Really, I just want to see if there's anything I recognize. It shouldn't take long. We have plenty of time to get to both." Then they could go see the eye-chairs. Carlos had to admit, he was a little curious about them.

"Wouldn't that be cool, though?" Cecil said as they continued on, past the open glass doors leading into the pre-cataclysmic art (the oldest wing of the museum). "Like, what if something like Night Vale existed in Panem at some point? Before it was Panem, I mean. When it was... whatever it was, before."

He came to a halt in front of a painting fragment - only a piece of the completed work, obviously, and only partially restored, but a part of what must once have been a fairly imposing seascape. Cecil frowned at it, tipping his head as though this would help him to understand it better.

"How about that one?" he asked. "Does that one look familiar?"

"America," Carlos supplied. "Based on the positions of the mountain ranges and bodies of water, I'm reasonably certain that the landmass we are on used to be called North America."

He paused there to give the painting fragment a good long look, stroking his chin with his free hand.

"Right," Cecil said. "North America." The words were clearly unfamiliar in his mouth, though he tried to pass it off otherwise. He went back to examining the painting.

"...It looks kind of like... District Four!" he supplied, after a moment. "I mean, there's... there's water in it. And there's also water in District Four."

"It wouldn't have been called District Four. It would have been called Texas. Or Louisiana." Carlos stroked his chin once or twice more, to help him think, but it was no use. He shook his head. "It's no use. There's not enough of it to tell."

"Texas! That's where Joel's from. You know-- that guy in District Eight, who has in the past mentioned that he is from Texas." This was the only mental connection Cecil had with Texas; he couldn't picture it, exactly, unless he pictured the coastal resort he'd stayed in once on a vacation to District Four. He thought it might be safe to assume, however, that it no longer bore any strong resemblance to the place it had once been. Most places were like that post-cataclysm, just in general.

This seemed to be the only conclusion to be drawn from this particular painting. Cecil turned away from it, scanning the room around them - the pieces of statuary up on pedestals, the fragments of paintings, and the occasional mostly-whole work of art scattered between, under brighter, prouder lighting. "Does any of this look familiar?" he asked. "Just at a first glance?"

Carlos looked. He paced around the room, making a wide circuit, looking at the paintings and the sculpture and shaking his head. He was a scientist, not an artist. Perhaps someone who specialized in this field would know more, but --

-- one piece in particular caught his attention. It was a skull, partially encrusted in diamonds. You could see bits of bone poking through, where the diamonds had fallen off, but it was clear that it had once been completely encrusted. Carlos had only been shown a picture, once, by a coworker, back in...was it 2007? 2008? And what had it been called?

"That one," he said, pointing excitedly and moving toward the skull. "I remember this. If it's the piece I'm thinking of, it's from very early in the twenty-first century. It's called..." He racked his brain, trying to remember.

"...For the Love of God!" Cecil exclaimed. He was not, however, commenting on the skull, but on the small plaque hanging on the wall beside the display, on which was printed the name. He was not sure how the name related to the piece itself, unless it was supposed to reflect the viewer's intended reaction.

He sounded impressed, though, and he leaned to look at the skull from another angle, admiring the way the light played off of the diamonds. "I like it," he declared, as though the room had been waiting for his opinion. "It looks kind of like the shoulderpieces the stylists had designed for District Six in their last appearance before the Fifty-Fourth Hunger Games! ...Though those are in a different museum." One with whose contents he was, obviously, rather more familiar.

"Yes, that's it! Cecil, I know this piece!" Carlos looked very excited. "That means the cataclysm must have happened after the turn of the century!" He paused, rubbing his chin slowly. "It's odd, though. If I remember right, and of course I do, because I have an excellent memory for science, Pluto was declared a dwarf planet in 2006. I didn't see this artwork--" he gestures at the skull, "--until at least a year after that." The cataclysm couldn't happened before the Pluto planetarium tapes were updated but after the creation of this skull -- it seemed impossible.

Cecil frowned. That was a contradiction. ...And also a long time ago. Wow.

"Well," he said slowly, "Maybe... maybe the tapes were also from before the cataclysm! Or based, perhaps, on prior knowledge that people more interested in the topic than I am have, that I do not. Maybe they were on loan from this museum, even. Or..." He considered briefly. "Maybe... maybe our timelines are not exactly equivalent. Maybe there existed months or years here, which time in your own world is not able to account for."

He made a wiggling motion with one hand, to indicate uncertainty. "Measuring time before and immediately following the cataclysm is a little.... eeeehhh. You know?"

"Yeah, I know," said Carlos with a shrug. "It's kind of surreal, knowing that whatever happened to your version of Earth didn't occur that long after when I was alive on mine."

It was interesting to think about. And frightening, in a distant, chilling sort of way.

"Well, I found what I came here to see. We can go wherever you want now, Cecil. My scientific obligations are fulfilled." I'm yours for the rest of the day, was what that shrug and that smile meant.

And it was the entire rest of the day. They did as they had originally planned - they walked the museum for a few hours, they went out for a late lunch, they returned to Cecil's apartment to share a glass or two of wine, and then they separated only long enough to be zipped and buckled into less practical, but better-coordinated clothes before they met again to attend a party. It was Cecil's party - not one that he'd put on, but one to which many members of the press had been invited, and the invitation had made clear that his plus-one was expected.

In some ways, the party was the most private few hours they had all day. There were dim corners and loud music; places where one could stand and be sought, but not noticed; places where normal conversation was all but inaudible. Even in Cecil's apartment, they knew that they were watched, and could be overheard. Conversation there was bright, and pointless, and careful. It was convincing; it was not enjoyable.

It was easier to pretend in a crowd, somehow. It was easier when Cecil could play his affection for an audience-- could look at their expressions and listen to their voices and know how convincing he'd been, what little gestures they liked and which they might not quite believe. He didn't always have to look at Carlos, either. He could talk about Carlos, like he'd always done, and not have to deal with the additional difficulty of looking into his face and being painfully, immediately aware of how many layers deep this deception ran.

--But, well. Three or four drinks in, it also became much easier to be close to Carlos. It became easier to stand or sit with an arm around his waist or a hand resting on his knee. It became less important whether the smiles Cecil directed at him were real or not; it mattered less what motivated him to spend minutes at a time just looking at Carlos' profile against the light.

And so there was something more natural (if less coordinated) in the way Cecil approached Carlos toward the end of the evening, a drink in each hand, to sit down beside him on a couch not dissimilar in design from the abstract furniture they'd been browsing earlier in the day. He sat down and did bother putting any space between them; because they were together, and this was one of the many small things that togetherness entailed.

"Carlos," he said by way of greeting, proffering one of the drinks (which glowed only faintly, as they were some distance from the blacklight under which it was intended to be drunk). He said the name like he'd used to say it on the air, sometimes - though now, because they were together, he could leave the perfect implied.

Carlos, in more buckles than he's sure are entirely necessary, has been fielding uncomfortably personal questions all night. He's getting better at smiling through the informal interviews, and his replies come more naturally than they did, but if he has to explain one more time about how grateful he is to the Capitol for bringing him and Cecil together, he will have to conduct a scientific study on whether or not it is possible for the words coming out of a person's mouth to make him or her physically ill, because all he has so far is compelling but anecdotal evidence.

Being near Cecil is uncomfortable. Being apart from him is worse. At least he doesn't have to worry about fooling Cecil, and at least when Cecil is close by, fewer Capitolites approach. It is with a genuine but tired smile that Carlos greets Cecil, and Carlos accepts the drink gratefully. He hasn't had that much this evening, only the two or three he's been unable to refuse politely, so one more won't hurt, right? After all, it's nearly two. He can't have to do this for much longer. Right?

"Hello, Cecil," he says, just loud enough to be heard. "I'm really glad to see you. The other guests -- they won't leave me alone."

He frowns. It's not a serious frown. He's not actually unhappy. He's not feeling much like taking any in-depth survey of his emotions at the moment, but he's pretty sure he's not unhappy. Just expressing sympathy for Carlos' plight, with his face.

"That's terrible," he says. He's looking right into Carlos' face. This is a good way to keep people from approaching, usually. Only the determined and those with temporary artificial impairment to their ability to process social cues tend to interrupt people with so few inches between their faces.

"Maybe-- maybe you should stay over here," Cecil suggests. Not out of the way, exactly, but with several backs between them and the main clump of laughing, dancing people. To clarify: "With me, I mean." As added incentive, in a lower voice: "It'll look really normal."

Why, Carlos thinks, as all the alcohol in his system makes a mad dash for his face, did Cecil have to take that tone with him? Staying over here isn't scientifically speaking a bad idea, but that tone makes it very difficult to maintain the level of emotional detachment that is appropriate when you are in close proximity to the man you are conducting a fake relationship with.

Very difficult.

"...you came over to me," he says, after a pause just a hair too long to be natural. "I was here first. So technically -- scientifically -- you would be the one staying here, with me."

He doesn't pull away. Maintaining physical distance is proving just as difficult as maintaining emotional distance. Actually, come to think of it, are there fewer inches between them now? Carlos thinks there are. Maybe he should have taken measurements, a moment ago.

Too late now.

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ZOOMS THROUGH ANOTHER TRANSITION

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