stripping down to dirty socks [OPEN, OPEN OPEN OPEN]

[capitolprivilege]

Who| Stephen and anyone who wants to react to or be part of that hot mess
What| Stephen being an embarrassment to four generations of Reagans
Where| All over the Capitol
When| Largely after the Arena, though if you want to backdate, be my guest! Just let me know, and be aware that he wouldn't be hammered in public before the Arena end.
Warnings/Notes| Warnings for the kind of things you'd see on ONTD for something on Ke$ha about five years ago. Also, anyone who's been in the Capitol lately will have found out from the tabloids that Stephen has been up to these shenanigans for a while. He has mispronounced his Tributes' names (poor Darcy Lewis), faceplanted onstage during a Flickerman interview (and made a fantastic face), worn utterly outrageous clothes (notes in log), gone off on rants practically unprovoked (but almost never against a Tribute or Mentor), and generally shown his ass but good.

A: Closed to Six and anyone who would be in the Six rooms in the wee hours of the morning

The door swings open, and Stephen stumbles in. His hair is mussed, his clothes are disheveled, and his feet leave behind prints of glitter and grime.

He makes it to the couch, and lands on it face-first.

The hour is somewhere between two and five. Stephen's lost track, somewhere along the line. Anyone who walks in between now and morning will find him lying on the couch, leaving glittery eyeshadow stains on the cushions. Somebody bring him some water, for the love of God.

B: Open and looking for trouble

Being a tabloid-worthy mess was sometimes a lot of work and sometimes completely easy. Tripping onstage with Flickerman had been easy. Getting into fights is hard. Stephen doesn't want to rail at someone from the Districts. Therefore, he's chosen today to wear outrageous clothes and just wait for someone from the Capitol to comment on it.

It could be anything that Stephen is wearing. It might be an outfit made entirely out of feathers. It might be a suit with Caesar Flickerman's face printed all over it. He might be waring pants and a vest made entirely out of tire treads. Distressed leggings, hot pants, a jacket made from what looks like an entire wolf, excessive amounts of layered jewelry, shrink-wrap, lime-green dragon scales, and a baseball cap have all appeared in different combinations, accompanied by liberal amounts of glitter.

You might see him drinking a martini out of a whiskey tumbler with about six olives at eight in the morning and ask him what he's planning to do with his life. Or, you might see him already engaged in a fight with another Capitolite, insisting that his clothes are daring, not ugly, and the hapless citizen just does not understand art, and like, why would you, you know?? Or you might have a completely different reason to approach him. Either way, he's wearing something eye-catching again, and may or may not have someone on his arm.

C: Closed to PG

It's early evening. Stephen woke up a few hours ago. He's had time to clean up, to dress up, to get his makeup on. He's stretched out on the couch flipping through whatever's on his tablet, but he perks up when he hears someone come in the room.

[OOC: let me know if you need more!]

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[capitolprivilege]

"I don't think so," he says, stirring enough to pull one of his hands out from under him and reach forward, finding the arm of the couch. "If I did, I don't remember it."

This is said in a tone that implies it's actually pretty possible.

[molotov]

"That doesn't answer my question about what's wrong with you. Why are you doing this? Are you intent on ruining yourself and this District, and probably even your brother?"

She crosses her arms over her chest and awaits answers. She's not sure she's ever seen someone crash and burn so quickly.

[capitolprivilege]

"Why," Stephen demands, pulling his face a few inches out of the pillow, "is everyone so sure there is something wrong with me?"

He turns over so he's on his back, both hands over his face, palms pressed flat. The last thing Stephen wants is to have to defend his life and his choices that he knows are a mess, they are supposed to be a mess, to Molotov, while hung over, in front of security cameras.

[molotov]

"Because if something weren't wrong with you, you would only be putting your neck on the line. You wouldn't take the rest of us down with you." She squints at him, trying to read him deeper, but she's tired and his face is covered. "Clementine and Bro and Darcy and myself, how long have we been with you? You wouldn't put us at risk just for some kicks."

She and Stephen aren't exactly besties, but you can only live and work with someone for so long before you know them well enough to figure out whether they'd ruin lives intentionally. She knows he isn't like that.

[capitolprivilege]

He swings himself up so that he's sitting, one leg crossed in front of him, the other foot on the floor. It looks like he's having trouble figuring out which Molotov is the real one, so he settles on the one in the middle.

"No one's at risk, Molotov, calm down. The Arena's over. No Sponsor meetings, no responsibilities. Let me have my time off."

[molotov]

"And you don't know when the next Arena is coming!" She wants to hit him. "No one is going to affiliate with us when you're falling all over yourself on television and Linden is stabbing people in the face!"

She sighs, rubs her face, and then holds her hands out like she's calming him down, even though it's more for herself.

"Either way, I don't want you... you know, losing your mind or whatever is happening here. So, are you all right?"

[capitolprivilege]

"I'm fine." It's said with finality. "And the Arena is going to be fine, too. I'll have you know, I'm getting more party invitations now than I have in the past six months. Even with Linden's arrest, I swear, when the Arena rolls around, Dee-Six won't be hurting."

It's the closest Stephen will come to admitting that this was anything besides a meltdown. He's going to do his best not to let on that it's all on purpose, but the way he's playing it, gosh isn't it convenient that he's making all these social connections with irresponsible people who will totally get drunk and bet on the Games?

How drunk he is might make it a little less convincing, though.

[molotov]

Her eyebrow arches high and then she crosses her arms back over her chest.

"Whatever," she mutters, tired of whatever game he's playing, because she doesn't have the time or energy for Capitol politics and games anymore. She just wants to go upstairs, curl back up in Tom's bed.

If Stephen says he's fine, then he's fine. She does set a wastebasket at his feet, though, because she's pretty sure he'll be throwing up some time soon.

"I'm getting my things and staying in Ten, by the way. Not permanently, just for a few weeks. I'll be up there if you need me, but you can just send my schedules to my communicator and I'll go wherever I need to go."

[capitolprivilege]

"That's fine," comes Stephen's voice from the couch, after a soft fwump of him falling back onto the cushions. "Thank you for letting me know. I will probably remember tomorrow."

She doesn't have to care about his game; that's fine. She'll be looked after either way. Though it really, really looks that way, Stephen hasn't given up on Six; it's a risk, but a calculated one. After all, the quality of life of the District itself depends on someone from Six winning, and that's too many people for Stephen to dismiss with a clear conscience, even if he weren't personally attached to so many of its offworld Tributes.

The wastebasket is a kind thought. He'll appreciate it in the morning.