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

[capitolprivilege]

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.)

Comments

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"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.

[currupted]

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."

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"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.

[currupted]

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."

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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."

[currupted]

"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."

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"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.

[currupted]

"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."

[capitolprivilege]

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."

cool to end here if you are! c:

[currupted]

"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.