thecapitol | 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

Oh, no. Oh, no.

For a moment, Carlos looks at Cecil and realizes, I could go to his apartment. He could follow Cecil home, and they would put Khoshekh outside, and no one but them and the Peacekeepers on the other side of the cameras would know how they spent the rest of the night.

His mouth feels very, very dry.

But that, Carlos realizes, is a very bad idea. Colossally bad. They hadn't talked about this, and if he slept with Cecil now, they wouldn't be able to talk about it. Not honestly. Not without pretending feelings had been there all along.

He can't.

"...I shouldn't," Carlos says, also with more sincerity than is technically advisable in a heavily-surveilled police state. "You've had a few drinks, Cecil. I--I don't think it's a good idea." All three of these statements are true, and all are good reasons to not spend the night at Cecil's apartment.

Words, it turns out, mean very little just on their own. The words that Carlos is saying, taken for exactly what they are, each mean only one thing at a time. I shouldn't, for example means that Carlos recognizes the existence of at least one compelling reason not to go back to Cecil's apartment with him. I don't think it's a good idea means that Carlos, in this moment, has used his powers of judgment to come to a conclusion about his next course of action, but does not wish to be so rudely direct as to say that he thinks going home with Cecil would be a bad idea. On the surface, their meaning is no more complex than this.

However: Just as important, in Cecil's experience (as someone who knows a lot about saying words), is what words do not mean. For example: An interesting thing about I shouldn't is that it does not necessarily mean I don't want to. An interesting thing about I don't think it's a good idea is that it does not necessarily mean This will never be a good idea.

He still feels the ghost of Carlos' fingers on his jaw, and knows when next he looks into a mirror his hair will be mussed on one side where Carlos' hand ran through it. He is not going to argue with Carlos about the meaning of his words now, because the fact that Carlos does not want to come back with him is enough. But he is going to wonder about the meaning later, he thinks, when he is alone again; he is going to spend a long time turning Carlos' words over in his mind.

Even as he feels disappointment fall like a heaviness in his limbs (somehow a downward sensation despite the fact that emotions do not respond to the earth's gravitational pull), Cecil concedes the discussion with a slow nod, and sits back.

"Right," he says. "Of course."

He hesitates, and then a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. It is one he put there, and not one that came as a result of any real happiness on his part. It does not look anything like the smile that he wore a few minutes ago, when Carlos pulled back to look at him.

"Wow," he says. Brighter, and louder. "What a great party! I don't think I've enjoyed myself so much since the fifth Arena Crowning-- though, admittedly, my memory of the fifth Arena Crowning is not a vivid one, and has mostly been replaced in my subconscious mind with a probably-fictional series of events, because the power to persuade oneself to remember a more interesting life than one actually has is an important part of being human."

He is not really looking at Carlos while he says this, but in a direction that is sort of over Carlos' shoulder. The intent is clear: It might be better if this night is not allowed to become, or even to appear to be, a vivid memory for either of them.

Cecil's words wash over him, as they do, sometimes -- sometimes, Cecil just says so much, and there is so much on his mind already, that there's not room for everything Cecil has to say. There is certainly a lot on his mind right now, like how it's easier to pull away now than it was thirty seconds ago. It's easier to stand, and remember where he is, and to decide firmly that going home with Cecil is such a supermassively bad idea that it is completely out of the question.

"Yeah," is all he can really say, and the upward movement of the corners of his mouth is almost, almost convincing. "I'll get a ride back to the Tribute Center myself. You'll make it home okay, right?" Because Cecil has been drinking.

"Of course I will." Cecil makes a dismissive hand gesture, one that says I have been drinking at Capitol parties longer than you have, Carlos, and I am the sole arbiter of where I will wake up tomorrow, whether I know it now or not.

He stands as well, and wavers only a little bit. He makes a token attempt at putting his hair back in order, but must accept that this is not going to happen. He glances down at his communicator, and pulls up the contact number for the taxi service he normally uses after hours.

"...I'll see you soon, Carlos," he says, glancing up. And he should lean in for a good-bye kiss. He really should. This is what he would do in any other situation, any other prolonged social contact between them.

...but tonight, he finds that he can't. He leans in, as though he means to-- and then he only looks down at Carlos' hand, and takes it, and squeezes it briefly, as though that was what he'd intended to do the whole time.

"Good night," he says, and that's it, that's really it-- he will duck his head to look at his communicator, and call for a car as he moves away.

The squeeze back is reflexive; there's no thought in it. Carlos's thought is busy elsewhere, in a whirling mess of what-ifs and look-normals and did-I-make-the-right-call-heres.

He thinks he did, but he'll pick it over in his brain more later.

"Good night," he calls back, quietly.

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

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cool to end it here if you are!

yep totes!