thecapitol | closed because you're not rich enough to be in this log

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closed because you're not rich enough to be in this log

Who| Stephen and Cyrus Reagan
What| A chat, to feel out where they are. They've both learned a lot about Tributes, and they're not sure how much the other knows.
Where| The gratuitously ritzy Cyrus Reagan penthouse
When| This week
Warnings/Notes| None!

It's been a while since Stephen has been back here.

There's a damn good reason for that: this is where he lived during his hiatus. During the hiatus Cyrus had all but made him take. During the two most frustratingly boring years of his life, during the time he wasn't allowed in the Tribute Center, during the time he had to watch some hamfisted ex-D11 rookie manage his Tributes into dying again and again.

He's found himself with real distaste for the place.

But here he is, riding the mirror-walled elevator, treading the spotless gleaming hallway, reaching the door to his brother's completely normal and not gratuitously fancy at all apartment. He hesitates in front of the door, sighs, and then tries the doorknob.

(Knocking would be completely redundant, of course; Cyrus knows he's coming. The receptionist at the front desk has called him by now to let him know that Stephen's on his way up. He can't back out now. It would be awkward.)

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There aren't many people that Cyrus allows into this place. It's the sanctuary he's built for himself against the chaos of his life and his job, safe from almost all comers. Family, of course, is different (is always different), but even his grandmother would call ahead before she let herself up here.

The door is open for Stephen, however. It's always open for Stephen.

The place is huge, of course; high-ceilinged, sleekly decorated, an open floor space divided mostly with glass. Every piece of furniture in the place has a designer's name attached to it. It says something, that this is Cyrus Reagan's most private place - that he didn't arrange it this way to impress anyone, but because he could. Because there was no reason he shouldn't.

Cyrus stands as the door swings open. He'd been on the couch-- reclining, even, in clothes that do not in any way resemble a suit, his feet bare (which is fine, even at this time of year-- the floors are heated). There's an Avox standing to attention in the nearest corner, but she might as well be a part of the furniture.

He smiles as Stephen comes in, a broader, easier smile than he wears during his workday (and more natural than any he's worn in some weeks).

"Stephen! Welcome home."

It's a little ironic. This isn't Stephen's home anymore; of course it isn't. They both know that. But it was, for a while, right? That counts, right?

He'll step toward Stephen-- because things have been a little strange between them lately, a little distant, but surely not so changed that Cyrus can't hug his brother.

Edited (NOT ENOUGH GRATUITOUS WEALTH) 2014-11-17 15:50 (UTC)

This was never home to him, Stephen does not say. This place is all Cyrus, not him. It's beautiful, of course, and tasteful, and with every comfort money could buy, but it has never been comfortable. And while Stephen might not resent Cyrus, he does resent the place, a little.

But he isn't here to fight. He's here to...well, to feel things out, to be perfectly honest. Stephen is angry with a lot of people. He is angry with the Capitol, and angry with the Tributes, and has felt more than once like he should be angry with Cyrus, for keeping things from him. Stephen feels pulled in all directions, and at the very least, he would like some closure here.

...he would also like a hug.

He squeezes Cyrus quickly, warmly, around the back. "It took some digging, but I found out when you were planning a night off," he says, and gives a small smile. "It was harder than I thought it would be."

Cyrus holds on to Stephen a second longer-- a warm and affectionate gesture. Not remotely unhappy about the surprise.

"That's privileged information," he says dryly as he steps away (not without tousling Stephen's hair back-to-front, a mock-scolding). "Certain groups are very interested in my nights off." And, well, they are infrequent these days-- inasmuch as they were ever frequent, which they haven't been since he was about twenty-two.

(It's something he learned early on in his public career, though - you guarded jealously the moments you had to yourself, the pieces of your life that did not happen on camera. You carved those pieces out and hoarded them, and made sure-- always made sure-- that there was a part of your life that no obligation could touch.)

He goes stern for a second (though there's still a decidedly un-political smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, giving the lie to the act). "..So, if you're here about work, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the premises."

Stephen -- like he always does -- takes a moment to quickly push his hair back into place with one hand. "I'm not here to lobby, Cyrus, my god," he says with a roll of his eyes.

It's comfortable, kidding around like this. Comfortable in a way it hasn't been in a while. It's almost possible to pretend there haven't been so many disagreements between them -- to pretend he hasn't realized that there are things Cyrus has kept from him.

Cyrus' smile resolves into a real one, and he drops the sternness as he turns away, with the intent that Stephen should follow him further into the apartment. "We live in uncertain times, Stephen. Better safe than sorry."

He beckons the Avox as he goes, an offhand signal he doesn't even have to think about making. The Avox obeys it without hesitating, moving to the kitchen on silent feet. Cyrus returns to his place on the couch, with a glance at Stephen to indicate that he's free to follow.

It is good, to feel this easy, this comfortable. Cyrus isn't sure what's changed between them in recent months; whether the close nature of their work has been a detriment to their relationship instead of the boon he hoped it would be, or the situation in the Capitol's come more between them than he expected. He's glad Stephen sought him out this evening. There've been too many surprises from Stephen lately, and most of them not nearly so pleasant.

That Stephen might know more than he's letting on hasn't even occurred to Cyrus.

The sound of drinks being poured comes distantly from the kitchen. "...So, if you're not here to lobby-- to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Stephen sprawls out against the arm of the artistically-minimalist couch, kicking his shoes off and bracing one of his feet up on the seat, between him and Cyrus. He gives a wide shrug.

"I'm here to drink your wine and put my feet on your furniture."

It's not a comfortable couch, exactly - not really made for lazing - but they both fit on it, and there's nothing more comfortable in the apartment. Cyrus lets himself sprawl a little as well, as the Avox returns to set wine on the table in front of them. (She, of course, does not sprawl; she stations herself not too close to the couch and not too far from the wall, ready to move at another gesture from Cyrus.)

He raises his eyebrows. "Seriously? That's what I was going to do this evening." He leans forward to pick up the wineglasses, proffering one to Stephen as he sinks back against the cushions. "Thank God. I won't have to change my plans."

A pause, to sip at the wine and give the Avox a nod of satisfaction (a signal that she takes as a command to step back to her place by the wall). There's something wry in the statement-- a nod to common rumor, which has filled his nights off with a lot less tame pursuits, especially in recent months.

Stephen takes the wine and the hint. He raises an eyebrow as he leans back with the glass.

"You mean I'm not getting in the way of plans with Molotov?" he says through a grin. "Or were you drinking because she cancelled on you to see Tom Cassidy?"

He knows full well there is no truth in the rumors. However, he's going to tease Cyrus for all it's worth.

Cyrus' smile goes cold.

It doesn't vanish; doesn't drop off his face. But it fades from around his eyes, and freezes at the edges; suddenly, it seems like there are more teeth in it, like he's putting forth genuine effort not to let his lip curl.

It's been some days since his and Molotov's last conversation at the Crowning, but the memory still stings-- still pricks at his pride and makes his jaw feel tight with anger when he thinks of it, of the glass shattering at his feet, at the way she spat pathetic at him. He hasn't spoken of it much - certainly not to the tabloids, which are mostly convinced that the "relationship" and its accompanying drama have simply gone undercover - but just thinking of it, even weeks later, has felt like having sand in his teeth.

"...No," he says, and there's still that cold smile, and he can't quite make his voice come off as casual as he's trying to. "No, Miss Cocktease and I are-- no longer in contact."

He talks of her like he might a political opponent who's fallen out of favor, or a lackey who's disappointed him-- except for the deliberate disdain with which he lets her name drop off his tongue.

Oh, ouch. Stephen knows he's crossed a line -- Molotov must be out of favor indeed to get that tone from Cyrus.

"Whoa, hey, it was a joke," he says, furrowing his brows. "Are things that bad?"

There's genuine concern in his voice. Molotov is a frightening force, even as a Tribute, and if there's strife between his brother and one of his Tributes, he wants to know.

She's both a frightening force and an unfrightenable force, and that grates more than anything. He'd put himself into a position he hadn't wanted to for her, and received absolutely no payoff for it - not something he's accustomed to happening. Even Cyrus Reagan's gambles are carefully planned to stack in his favor, and it's rare that he fails to get what he wants.

"Well-- they're nothing, anymore," he says, with an effort at a return to the light tone of before. "She's crazy even for a Tribute - I'm just glad she decided not to drag it out after the Crowning."

A second's pause-- damn. This isn't actually what he wanted to talk about this evening. But she is one of Stephen's Tributes, isn't she. God, if she fucks anything up for Stephen--!

"She hasn't been giving you any trouble, right?" he adds, with grim concern. "She mentioned you, the last time we talked. If she tries to give you any shit because she's convinced she needs to punish me..."

God, he'd love an excuse to do something drastic.

Stephen laughs.

"Aside from some property damage to the inside of the Tribute center and a bee in her bonnet about a private bathroom, no, she hasn't," he says. "She went on a hell of a bender after Arena Eleven. Took losing very badly."

Cyrus is in the privacy of his own home, and so he gives himself leave to let his head fall back against the cushions behind him, to shove his feet into Stephen's leg in a gesture of hopeless frustration, and to roll his eyes.

"No shit," he says. He picks up his head-- "She knows they used to die, right? The ones who didn't win?"

"Of course she does," Stephen says, shifting to tuck his legs under him in a gesture younger than he is so that he can lean forward. "She just thinks she's seen it all already, and that because she's worked under a government like this before, she can take whatever it throws at her!"

He drags his free hand over his face.

"Sometimes it feels like it's all I can do to keep her from getting herself killed. I mean, permanently. You know."

"...I mean, you could just. Not." Cyrus shrugs, drinks. "Keep her from getting herself killed, I mean."

There's a strange quality to Cyrus' tone. He's half-smiling, like he's joking, but the joke isn't on Molotov, or even the idea of her death. No, it's on Stephen - on his concern, his investment in keeping Molotov alive. Cyrus speaks like he's poking fun at Stephen for getting too emotional over a movie, or giving someone he admires more attention than they're giving him-- like he expects Stephen to laugh along with him.

Also: He's only half-joking.

Stephen drags his hand over his face. "No, I can't," he sighs. He doesn't pick up on how serious Cyrus is -- if it had been anyone else, maybe, but the idea that Cyrus could just not care about someone's life is ridiculous. "You know I can't. It's my job. It is literally my job to keep Molotov from getting killed as long as I can."

It's not that Cyrus doesn't care about people's lives. The problem is more that Tributes and people are classifications that overlap in his head-- but the Venn diagram of the two groups is decidedly not a circle.

He shrugs. "And? It's her job to die." Still in that half-joking tone, and he shifts in his seat, the better to mirror Stephen's lean in. "It's not your job to take the fall every time a Tribute decides consequences don't apply to them."

They're having a good evening, and he's not going to bring up Stephen's cuff, and the headache that was the weeks surrounding that entire incident - but the thought is not far from his mind.

Stephen drops himself back against the arm of the couch -- not spilling a drop of that wine, by the way -- and rolls his eyes.

"I know, I know. Ugh. There's a difference between looking out for someone and letting them walk all over you, and I'm kind of burned on sticking my neck out for Tributes."

Another swallow of the wine, to go with the whine.

(He says he's burned, and he feels burned, but this is a damn dirty lie. If one of his Tributes were in real trouble, he absolutely would go out of his way to help them. He wouldn't be able to help it.)

Oh, he'd better not spill a drop of that wine. The bottle cost about as much as the upholstery it would ruin.

Cyrus shrugs, kind of... pointedly. Setting an example with his indifference. "So... don't." Duh. "Come on, Stephen. Just... let them take the fall, for once."

His concern is genuine, for all his tone is still easygoing. He's looking at Stephen, up and down, and wondering if he looks more tired than usual. If all this hasn't taken some kind of physical toll on him. God-- it's been too long since they've seen each other, if he can't tell that just by looking.

"It's the same in politics," he goes on. "Sometimes, yeah, you stick your neck out for somebody who really needs it-- but with the expectation you're going to get something out of it, right? Favors need to come with a price, or what the hell is the point?" A sip of wine-- he hadn't actually been intending to make a speech. "They're your Tributes, Stephen. Not your friends. Make them work for your help."

Stephen doesn't intend to argue back. He really doesn't.

"...they're already working," he finds himself saying, still slumped back against the arm of the couch but picking his head up. "They're dying in an Arena to keep our country stable, Cyrus. I think we're already getting a lot out of them."

Working hard stirring shit in the Capitol, then vanishing into thin air and coming back rebels before we can catch them. Cyrus' expression is unconvinced.

"What, so that means we should tolerate whatever they do back in the Capitol?" The answer is in the question, and in Cyrus' sidelong look at Stephen. "That makes it okay for them to expect favors from you?"

"You're exaggerating," accuses Stephen, wagging one finger of the hand holding his wineglass at Cyrus, "and you know it. You know perfectly well I'm not about to advocate anarchy."

A snorted laugh, and a pointed look at the cuff on Stephen's wrist. "No?"

It's not unfriendly. Not exactly. But it's not as light a tone as a moment before. (Sure, it wasn't Stephen's fault, sure he got tricked, sure nothing came of it, but still-- still.)

Stephen doesn't want to have this argument. He doesn't want to keep bringing up seditious lines of thinking while lying to Cyrus's face about not being seditious himself.

He groans and takes another drink of wine.

"I'm not a traitor, Cyrus," Stephen sighs, as if the very idea is ridiculous. It is, of course. Stephen knows Cyrus believes that Stephen isn't a traitor, and Stephen has absolutely no convincing to do. The most natural thing is to treat the idea as a joke.

For a long moment, Cyrus looks at Stephen, his expression almost steely. Appraising, at least; cold and analytical, a face he wears when he's waiting for a subordinate to deliver news he knows he won't like, and knows they don't want to give him.

...And then, suddenly, he breaks into an easy grin - the kind he doesn't wear often in public. It's too wide, too easy, too fond for polite company; it belongs to Stephen, and Stephen alone, and has for close to ten years. (It used to belong to others, too; this is no longer the case.)

"Come on," he says. "I know that." He leans forward, bending until his back creaks, to reach out and ruffle Stephen's hair, to give his shoulder a light, playful shove. He sits back, stretches-- "Now, I'm no expert on the rebellion-- but somehow I don't think you're what they're looking for."

The expression on Stephen's face had grown more and more worried as the seconds ticked on. Not truly worried. Comically worried. Over-the-top worried. Sad worried. Oh no don't do THAT worried. Puppy worried.

He didn't believe for a second that Cyrus thought he was a traitor. This is nothing but playful. When the tension breaks, he laughs, and the smile stays on his face.

"Obviously," he says with raised eyebrows, like it's the most self-evident thing in the world. "They're looking for someone who is desperate, gullible, or both. Luckily, I'm neither -- I'm too smart to try to go against the Capitol. There's no point. I'd lose."

The assertion is almost a testing of the waters. Behind his easy smile, he wants to see how Cyrus reacts. Stephen Reagan has suspected for a while that his brother thinks he's stupid -- stupid enough to lie to, stupid enough to stay in a penthouse for two years. This statement he just made is deeply and profoundly stupid. What does Cyrus have to say?

Cyrus laughs. Just, not in a way that implies that he thinks Stephen is joking.

"Of course you are," he says, blithe and friendly and reassuring. "Way too smart." Gullible enough to stockpile supplies for rebels on Reagan property, but way too smart to get recruited. "Besides-- why the hell would you want to go against the Capitol?" The answer is obvious in the question-- You wouldn't.

Telling Stephen what to think, telling him sidelong what's right and letting him believe the idea was his-- it's second nature. He's known for years that Stephen is stupid. That's exactly why he needs to be protected, isn't it? Why he's always needed to be protected. He's never wanted to be involved with anything bigger than his friends, his parties, shopping trips, his Sponsor meetings. Being involved in bigger things is Cyrus' job. This is the natural order of things, the way it works between them.

Cyrus has never for a second believed that Stephen is a traitor. That would require the brains to form a contrary opinion-- a skill that Cyrus has never credited his brother with.

Well, god damn.

Stephen's smile doesn't falter. He raises his wineglass to Cyrus, and says in a half-mocking, self-parodying way, the way you might say liberty and justice for all --

"Panem today, Panem tomorrow."

He recognizes, now, that he's being guided, like he was guided into staying in this place for two years. The familiar feeling, in this familiar setting, makes his stomach twist.

Cyrus raises his in return, with the same self-parodying smile - See? We get it.

"Panem forever." That with no little irony. He drinks, and is satisfied - this is the way it's supposed to be.

"...Hey-- I didn't mean to sound so... suspicious, I guess. I wasn't serious." A smile that's much more real-- "We're good, right?"

This, too, is part of the pattern. Stephen's always hated it when Cyrus is upset with him. Disapproval; guidance; apology. That's the way these conversations always end, whether it takes them minutes or days or weeks.

Stephen calls it. He sees the apology coming, sees it in Cyrus's face, remembers all of the others -- he can almost guess the exact words Cyrus is about to use. The wine feels sour in his mouth, which considering the wine, is a goddamn tragedy.

"I know," he replies. "Of course we're good."

He resists the urge to take another bracing mouthful of wine.

Cyrus doesn't see Stephen's discomfort. He just hears that acceptance, and his smile widens-- satisfied, warm, content. The acquiescence was all he needed.

..."Jeez. It's my night off, and I still manage to spend half the time talking about politics." A grin and a short, self-deprecating laugh. "Sorry. You came here to drink wine and put your feet on my furniture, and I made it weird."

"You totally made it weird," Stephen accuses, more playfully than he feels.

"Is there anything happening in your life that's not politics?"

He wants to talk about something else. Actually, he really wants to leave -- even the clean lines and open spaces of the modernly furnished apartment feel suffocating, confining -- but he'll take a change of subject. He can't leave on this note.

Cyrus laughs again-- a single insincere ha!, laughing at the idea that he has a life outside of work. It's not strictly true, but it's true enough. This is his first night off this month, after all.

"...I went home last week," he offers. "Had lunch with Grandma." He's thirty-three years old, has had this or some other apartment for his own use for more than ten years, but the Reagan estate is always, automatically, going to be home. "We went to that, like... District Seven place? With all the animals on the walls?" It's well-known, and a place that no one from District Seven would ever be able to afford to eat.

He nudges Stephen's leg with his foot. "She says you can stop tiptoeing around and call her any time you feel like."

Edited 2015-04-08 16:27 (UTC)

"I know, I know, I need to," Stephen admits with the barest hint of a whine. "It's just I haven't talked to her since the jailbreak disaster, and I'm not looking forward to what she'll have to say." He looks at Cyrus sideways. "Did she seem too mad?"

From Stephen's end, the conversation feels automatic, like of course, this is the thing to talk about, this is the thing to say.

In a way, it is automatic. These are the things Cyrus Reagan has available to talk about: His work, Stephen's work, and their family. If he's ever sought out more than this, something beyond this realm of experience, he isn't thinking about it now. His expression is easy, the brief tension already gone; he's sliding back into Stephen's space, as relaxed as he ever allows himself to be.

"Nah." A pause, an eeeeh sort of hand gesture. "Or, well. Less mad. It's been a few weeks and no one's come to collect the key to the manor over it, so I think she's decided the family name can take the blemish." Dryly-- "She has a lecture prepped, though. Sorry."

Stephen doesn't want Cyrus in his space. He wants his space to be his own. He doesn't want to keep up appearances.

But he has to. There is a wall up between Stephen and Cyrus that Stephen is desperately pretending is not there.

He wants to get out, and he thinks he's going to take this opportunity.

Stephen draws a hand over his face.

"...I should probably get that over with, actually," he says, with deep resignation. "If I don't do it now, I'll just put it off for weeks again." He retreats from where Cyrus has come into his space and gets to his feet, stretching. Then, once he's rolled his shoulders out, he raises the glass to Cyrus, then drains the rest of it in one swallow.

"Wish me luck."

"What-- leaving already?" Cyrus straightens, half-standing up as though to pull Stephen back down. Though he doesn't, at the last minute. "Seriously?"

It's playful, mock-regretful. It's a little too earnest. He hasn't relaxed back into the couch; he's waiting on Stephen's next move, hanging on it a little. "Come on. You've been here, what, a couple of hours? Stick around. Call tomorrow."

"Nuh-uh. You and your incredible workaholism have me inspired." He puts the glass down on the crystal invisible-illusion end table. "I've got no choice. I've got to do it."

Stephen's made the decision. It doesn't look like he's leaving because he can't stand to stay; it also doesn't look like his mind will be easily changed.

Edited 2015-04-15 02:05 (UTC)

"Ugh." Cyrus slumps back, defeated. "The one time you ever actually follow my example in anything. Wow."

He takes a sip of wine - finishing the glass - and observes Stephen over the rim. "Fine. Abandon me. I understand." There's mock-woundedness in his voice, the sorrow of the long-suffering.

He does stand up - he'll show Stephen to the door, and pull him close for one more lingering hug. a No hard feelings, seriously kind of hug. "Say hi to Grandma. Tell her we'll talk next week."

Oh yes, no hard feelings at all. The hug is returned cheerfully enough, with no indication that anything is wrong, lasting just long enough to be polite.

"Send her a message yourself -- I'm not your secretary," Stephen says as he pulls away, turning and heading for the door. "But I'll tell her you send your love."

"Kind of you." Cyrus grins at Stephen's retreating back, and motions to the waiting Avox (who's followed them silently, sensing it'll be needed) to shut the door behind him as he goes. "I'll talk to you soon."

He stands in the hall a moment when Stephen is gone. The grin slides off his face, replaced by an expression both thoughtful and mildly troubled. The Avox moves past him, to return to its place. He ignores it.

After a long moment, he shakes his head and returns to the couch, letting himself take Stephen's place and put his feet back up. He pours wine for himself, without waiting for the Avox.

He'll spend the rest of his evening off trying not to think of work and finding himself thinking instead of Escorts; of I'm too smart to go against the Capitol; of a cuff. Reminding himself of all the reasons he has not to worry about it. Letting himself be comforted by what he knows of Stephen. Sleeping early, and alone.

A good night off, all in all, he has to conclude. Whatever they talk about, it's always good to see Stephen.

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closed because you're not rich enough to be in this log

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I don't have a good eyeroll icon but I need one

here use this one in spirit

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cool to end here if you are! c: