Black Tom Cassidy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pimpcanes) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-11-03 07:48 pm
pimpcanes) wrote in thecapitol2014-11-03 07:48 pm
Entry tags:
There's a String That Runs Through All Our Bad Days [Closed]
WHO| Cyrus and Black Tom
WHAT| Two douchebags being douchebags.
WHEN| After the reaping by a few days.
WHERE| A fancy wine-tasting place in the Capitol.
WARNINGS| None yet.
Tom's made it a point to use his curfew pass whenever possible and as conspicuously as he can. Typically, that means loudly closing the door behind him on the way out of District Ten and going to places he knows he'll be photographed, usually with Molotov, and tonight is no exception.
He has his pass pinned to the lapel of his fancy coat as he passes through the streets. The weather's gotten just cold enough to whisper over his skin and the wind tangles its fingers in his hair. The city opens up before him like a clam glutted with pearls. He's more than just an unbranded, uncuffed Tribute - he's favored, a gem among the pebbles of the other minor celebrities sharing his living space, and the citizens are eager to let him know as much with smiles, discounts, favors.
It's almost enough to make him forget that this is nothing more than a larger, plusher prison than the ones he's used to.
The winery he's visiting is boasting grapes from District Eleven, as if that means anything to him aside from a price tag several tens of assi higher than anything else in the Capitol. He may soon find himself a spokesperson for whiskey, which, he imagines, means that any public alcohol intake will have to be run past a board of marketing executives and handlers. Might as well enjoy some red while he can.
The set-up is something of a free wander, and it reminds him of chickens scratching at feed, honestly. Citizens, many of whom are wearing more feathers than the average bird, flit from table to table to try the finest the winery has to offer. Tom paces himself, making shallow conversation with the populace as he savors each mouthful. He bumps elbows with the elite. He smiles and makes the women and quite a few men feel seen, as if they are, for a few seconds, the only other person in the room.
He doubletakes when he sees Cyrus, not immediately placing the face he's only seen in papers. "Sorry, have we met?"
WHAT| Two douchebags being douchebags.
WHEN| After the reaping by a few days.
WHERE| A fancy wine-tasting place in the Capitol.
WARNINGS| None yet.
Tom's made it a point to use his curfew pass whenever possible and as conspicuously as he can. Typically, that means loudly closing the door behind him on the way out of District Ten and going to places he knows he'll be photographed, usually with Molotov, and tonight is no exception.
He has his pass pinned to the lapel of his fancy coat as he passes through the streets. The weather's gotten just cold enough to whisper over his skin and the wind tangles its fingers in his hair. The city opens up before him like a clam glutted with pearls. He's more than just an unbranded, uncuffed Tribute - he's favored, a gem among the pebbles of the other minor celebrities sharing his living space, and the citizens are eager to let him know as much with smiles, discounts, favors.
It's almost enough to make him forget that this is nothing more than a larger, plusher prison than the ones he's used to.
The winery he's visiting is boasting grapes from District Eleven, as if that means anything to him aside from a price tag several tens of assi higher than anything else in the Capitol. He may soon find himself a spokesperson for whiskey, which, he imagines, means that any public alcohol intake will have to be run past a board of marketing executives and handlers. Might as well enjoy some red while he can.
The set-up is something of a free wander, and it reminds him of chickens scratching at feed, honestly. Citizens, many of whom are wearing more feathers than the average bird, flit from table to table to try the finest the winery has to offer. Tom paces himself, making shallow conversation with the populace as he savors each mouthful. He bumps elbows with the elite. He smiles and makes the women and quite a few men feel seen, as if they are, for a few seconds, the only other person in the room.
He doubletakes when he sees Cyrus, not immediately placing the face he's only seen in papers. "Sorry, have we met?"
no subject
"I'll take that as a compliment to myself, rather than as a condemnation of everyone else." Tom reads it for what it is, understands how delicately these matters must be handled. If a single winsome conversation could draw in real favor, then even the most thickheaded of Tributes would have worked on their sense of charisma.
"You must be busy, though, and I have Sponsors to court. Until next time, Minister Reagan." His tone is knowing, because there will be a next time. He's certain of it.
no subject
He's a strange, ambitious Tribute, and Cyrus can't yet tell how laughable his goals might be; they've got Molotov, if not between them, then at least hanging at the fringes of whatever strange acquaintance they've begun; but he is more than interesting enough to warrant a second conversation.
"Of course. Best of luck." He considers, maybe, wishing a Sponsor or two good evening himself before he leaves - if he's going to be cultivating relationships with Tributes again, it might not be unwise to be prepared. "I wish you a successful evening."
A cordial smile, and he takes his leave - to go and do a final run through the wines on offer. That last one-- he thinks it might be the best he's had all evening. Most certainly worth trying again.