I was sleepy but you held me through

[molotov]

Who| Molotov and Jolie
What| She hides it well in public, but Molotov has feelings about this Arena
Where| Jolie's room
When| Middle of week three, at night when everyone should be asleep and/or drunk
Warnings/Notes| Molotov is a bitch, Jolie is a bitch, etc. Possible talk of gore b/c Molotov's death was ugly.

She's been slapping on a happy face. Hitting the media cycle as hard as she can, raising support for Tom and Arya, to keep them flush with supplies and any information she can get her hands on. Guest commentating spots on Panem News Nightly and several morning radio shows. She's been keeping busy.

But at night, she's desperately lonely. Tom's bed is so cold without him, and her own room no longer feels familiar or pleasant. On top of that, the tenth floor is empty (which is preferable to Karkat and Linden, but still lonely), and she's increasingly found that she can't sleep without getting sufficiently drunk first.

Molotov is curled up in bed, bleary-eyed and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of vodka, watching the same snowstorm repeat on the projection window for the fifth time. It occurs to her that maybe she'll have an easier time sleeping if she talks to someone.

She shakily stands up and pulls on what amounts to a very large fleece hoodie, black with her logo emblazoned on the back, and stagger towards the elevator. She does not bother with shoes, something she only notices when she touches the cold floor of the elevator.

No matter. She manages to slam the button for the eighth floor (as well as the third and sixth), and when the doors open, she stumbles out and heads in the general direction of the staff quarters.

She can't really remember right now which door is Jolie's. She points at each one with a squint of effort -- Eight has two Mentors, an Escort who leaves at night, and Jolie, right? -- but then eventually just resorts to the easiest thing she can think of.

"Jolie!" she yells. "Jooooooooliiiiiiiieeeeeee!"

Comments

[reallynow]

Though Trey hasn't properly approached Molotov yet, it seems like she's handling this much better than she has handled deaths in the past. It almost makes him feel sad and a little nostalgic for that time so long ago when he'd walked her through losing and not destroying the entire tower. He worries, but Molotov is tough. If she needs help, she'll come get it or make enough of a scene for Trey to come running.

While he's aware of the chance that it could happen, he doesn't precisely expect it to happen now. He's well out of drag by this point, he'd been lying in bed in silk pajama shorts and a tank top, idly watching TV and using will-power not to bother Samuel more when he swears he hears someone stumble in the suites. It's not the strangest thing to hear when Jack lives in here but, he's not around.

Trey stands, slowly approaching his door and placing a hand on the knob in time for the yelling to begin. He snaps the door open and gives the perpetrator a wild-eyed look, both surprised and unsurprised to see Molotov. "Shit girl, please!" He snaps in a hushed voice, holding out his hands to beckon for her. "What's the matter?"

[molotov]

"Jolie!"

Molotov practically jumps into his arms, wrapping hers around his neck like she hasn't seen him in a year, despite passing each other in halls a few times a week. She is very, very obviously drunk and improperly dressed, with half her ass hanging out now that she's raised her arms.

She presses her face to the side of his neck, because he's warm and also it's sort of hard to hold her head all the way up right now, and sighs.

"I'm so sad, Jolie. Sad."

[reallynow]

"Molo-" He starts, trying to parrot back at her in a monotone so she knows how fucking ridiculous she's acting. "-tov." Suddenly he has an armful of her and he can't quite remember the last time he had this much boob pressed against him. Despite a slight stumble, he does his best to steady both of them without falling on his ass and making more of a scene.

"I know you're sad, sweetie. It's the middle of the night, you're half-naked and drunk and you're sprawled all over a drag queen." It's not that he doesn't think highly of himself, but he's met Tom. Tom is very sexy and Trey doesn't particularly think he holds up as a substitute when he's standing here in his pretty little bed shorts.

But he's a sucker anyway, so he sighs and starts to try shuffling them both backward toward his room for some privacy. "Do you want to talk about it? I'd offer you a drink but I think you have that part handled."

[molotov]

Molotov is not particularly helpful as Trey walks them backward into his room. She lets her toes drag on the floor, staying wound around his neck, and he's lucky she doesn't just hop up and make him carry her fully. At least she's not that heavy.

"Can't sleep without drinking," she mumbles, and her words are slurred. "Whole Tenth floor is empty, did you know that? 's too quiet, and 's cold. Tom makes it warm. He's warm."

She does not explain that she means that in a very literal sense, that he's actually warmer than normal human beings and thus his being in the Arena leaves Molotov without her bedwarmer. She also doesn't not clarify why she's occupying the Tenth floor all by herself when she shouldn't be up there, although it really boils down to her not caring and having a good enough reputation to be left alone up there, since she's only using Tom's room.

"You smell like makeup."

[reallynow]

It might actually be more helpful if she hops, because the angle of this is just a little awkward. Granted, she's not heavy, but neither is Trey. He just prays to god he doesn't trip, because he's probably already pushing this by letting her in his room. The last thing he needs is to wind up with her ass up and on top of him, Cyrus would probably sense the disturbance and walk in.

"Ten is probably gonna fucking win." Trey grunts, low and bitter and really not getting the point here. He stays silent when he drags her back, turning himself around so he can try dump her on the bed and pull away from her grip. Not that he doesn't love hugs. It's just. Laws. Ugh.

"You smell like booze and desperation, girl. Get it together." He gives her a little shake, but he says it lovingly. He cares, and he's worried about her, losing this early has got to sting.

[molotov]

Not that she has these thoughts in this state, but Molotov is pretty positive that no one will think anything is going on between the two of them. For many reasons, but the little silk shorts are a huge one.

She lets him drop her on the bed, where she curls up into a sad little ball, arms wrapped around her legs so she can idly pick at her shin with her nails. Her hair starts spilling out of her pulled-up hood, and it's a little greasy looking, like maybe she was too sad to shower and wash it.

"Why? No one cares as long as I go out and smile during the day. All I am is a story to your people, no one gives a shit that I'm really alone, that my Tom is really still in there and that I shamed my entire fucking country by getting thrown on a lance, and that I can't sleep and that I don't like this and I should have won the last Arena anyway, I deserved it!"

[reallynow]

Little silk shorts do very little to hinder the heterosexual agenda in the Capitol, but Trey is also pretty confident that they'd have to be reaching to imagine Molotov would be looking in those shorts for the answers to her problems.

He watches with a look reminiscent of a concerned frown and amused smirk if they collided with one another. The hair truly makes him sad and he clicks his tongue in disapproval before he shifts in to sit on the end of the bed.

"Well, your country isn't around to see it. You know how it is, what your daddy doesn't know won't hurt you." He'd like to see them try bring the entire population of Russia into Panem. If they're anything like Molotov, it would be a circus. "And if they don't give a shit, you have to make them give a shit. Sabotage aside.." He trails off, bitterness more than fucking apparent in his tone. He still misses Brock. "You have an opportunity here."

[molotov]

It's also a taste thing. Molotov just isn't a woman who sleeps with men that wear silk shorts. Silk pants, maybe -- her boyfriend does have a flair for the flamboyant, but she's hardly a shrinking violet herself.

"You don't know Russians, I am sure they felt it. Like some kind of cosmic shiver through everyone Slavic, 'one of your people fucked up terribly and in front of non-Russians'. God, Putin probably felt like crying for no reason." She sighs. From the time Molotov has spent with Capitolites, they really don't understand other cultures, and it makes her both happy and sad that there aren't any other Russians, who are really a world unto their own anyway. Not many Europeans at all, really, and it was part of the reason that she and Tom banded together in the first place.

"I don't know what you mean. I already spend all day pandering to the media and Sponsors, now I understand why Escorts are so bitter and stressed."