Your rhinestone eyes are like factories far away

[molotov]

Who| Molotov and Black Tom, A GIANT FUCKING OPEN PARTY
What| Molotov has one of those birthday things
Where| Tom's Mentor Suite, .infinity
When| August 7th
Warnings/Notes| to be updated if necessary

I. For Tom
Birthdays are honestly not something that Molotov finds very important. At most, they're an excuse to be treated specially, and she's now treated specially 24/7. It becomes almost boring after a while, and so she has mostly thrown away the gifts and bouquets that began arriving from fans about a week ago. She's kept a handful of the good ones, but really, what does she need with more roses? More candy, more clothing? She'd give them to charity if there were any, but she winds up tossing most of it in garbage bags that she gives to Avoxes to throw away.

She puts some of the bouquets, the nicer ones, in the common areas of the Suite. She thinks that's a very nice thing of her to do for the rest of them.

So when the alarm goes off in the morning, she doesn't really expect anything out of today, at least not on a personal level. She knows she has to go to her birthday party in the evening, but even that's more of a contractual obligation than anything else (it's being sponsored by the companies that make her vodka and lingerie lines). In fact, she even made it perfectly clear to Tom last night that she doesn't want to go out and do anything, and she'll be perfectly fine if he doesn't even remember. Or just pretends to forget.

Molotov isn't dumb enough to think he'll listen, because if there's a chance to show off, he'll take it. But she can say she tried.

II. Open prompt at .infinity nightclub

It is bright. It is loud. It is amazing.

It is Molotov's birthday party (brought to you by M Vodka and Consummare Apparel).

The party doesn't even begin until ten at night, and everyone of any importance in the Capitol has been invited, whether they showed up or not: Helena and Julian of Panem Nightly News are chatting up anyone who'll let them talk, and Cesar Flickerman is in the pool with roughly two dozen beautiful young people surrounding him.

All Games personnel and of-age Tributes have had an open invitation extended to them.

The music is loud, the dance floor packed, and there's a plethora of waitresses in heart-shaped eyepatches and lingerie walking around with trays of free alcohol. Vodka shots and cocktails abound -- don't get alcohol poisoning.

Molotov herself is up on the VIP balcony, which is roped off and contains few other people, though she might approve you if she likes you enough. She looks down over the party like a goddess, only coming down occasionally for the first hour or two, because she's still annoyed at wardrobe. She can't say she ever thought it would take three interns combined to pull a dress over her ass, or that she'd sit through four hours of hair on her own birthday.

But you'll be forgiven for focusing on her face, because for the first time since she arrived, Molotov is out in public without an eyepatch. Her left eye has been replaced, for the evening, with a glass one that seems to contain a whole galaxy, and the stars swirl and soar artfully between each blink of her eye.

She still can't see out of it, but at least it's pretty.

Comments

[pimpcanes]

It's a good thing Molotov has resigned herself to her boyfriend showing off, because that's exactly what he intends to do. He wakes up well before Molotov does, and when she rises she'll find the bed empty aside from her, with a trail of small bottles of fine alcohol and chocolates in little wrappers leading towards the kitchen of the District Ten Suite (Tom suspects anyone stupid enough to interfere with his attempts at romance will deserve the beating he tries to give them later, but also knows no one gets up quite as early as they do anyway. A small package sits next to the last chocolate.

Happy birthday, Gloriosa.

I'll see you there. Save some room for dinner and dessert.

Yours,
Tom

Attached are two tickets to a helicopter ride over the lake to take place at around sundown, and a small black box that opens to reveal a beautiful necklace. Tom is not yet anywhere to be found.

[molotov]

She'd felt him leave the bed earlier, the shifting weight enough to knock her semi-conscious, but she'd drifted back off before she could think anything of it. She'd decided herself that she wasn't waking up any earlier than she wanted to, and she stuck to that.

Molotov yawns and stretches before she notices the trail, and she can't help rolling her eye a little as she smiles, even as she grabs a robe. An Avox tails along behind her as she follows the gifts, picking all of it up so she doesn't have to. The Suite is quiet this time of morning, with everyone else either sleeping or already out for whatever reason. She doesn't open the gift quite yet, choosing instead to pour an entire mini bottle of chocolate liqueur into a mug before adding coffee.

She takes her gift to the table, sits as she drinks, and sorts through the bottles. Despite needing absolutely no more alcohol, she has the Avox take most to their Suite, leaving only a few bottles that she personally isn't interested in or that are duplicates. These, she puts a sticky note on, labeling them as open for the taking; she has a few of the better ones taken directly to Peggy's door, as a peace offering. The chocolates go to Arya, simply because Molotov knows she can't come to the party.

It's only once she finishes her coffee that she reads the card and looks at the tickets with a bite of her lip. The gift, she opens slowly, gasping despite herself, because it really is more opulent that she was even expecting. She goes back to the bedroom, leaving her mug and the wrapping paper for the Avox, and immediately stands in front of the mirror to put on the necklace.

Molotov, ever vain, beams at herself in the mirror, tracing a few of the lines with her fingers, then sheds her robe again and goes to lie in the center of the bed. Nothing is better than wearing only diamonds and having a huge bed to yourself.

It occurs to her that Tom has possibly gone to the Peacekeeper Center to watch her on the cameras. He's such an ass, she thinks, smiling indulgently, stretching her arms above her head to lie in the sunlight for a while. She has no idea whether he actually intends to leave her alone until sundown.

[pimpcanes]

Tom has, naturally, taken advantage of going to the Peacekeeper Center and putting in an order to have all District Ten footage from today set aside for his personal review. But most of the day is spent preparing for the evening, and Tom spares no energy or expense in properly setting the stage for their romantic evening.

He selects the correct suit with just the right amount of Capitol flair in the scarf. He supervises the crafting of sugar sculptures to await them at dessert. He samples wines and liquors and sends nine-tenths of them away. He goes over massage practices with the masseuse he's hired just for Molotov. Everything must be perfect, and he derives great pleasure from dictating the terms of his satisfaction to the Avoxes and waitstaff.

Before the helicopter ride, he preens and has his hair and goatee done professionally, then lets the Avoxes dress him and goes to wait at the open field with the chopper, smoking from his pipe and letting the mild breeze wick his hair around.

[molotov]

Molotov actually has a bit of a hard time figuring out what to do with herself for the day, given how packed her usual schedule is and how bad she is at relaxing in the first place. She dozes in the sunlight for a while, then takes off the necklace and goes for a long run, around the perimeter of the city where she's less likely to get stopped and bothered by fans. When she gets back, she takes a bath and gets drunk on tiny bottles of liquor for a while before she sinks back into bed to read(/nap off the alcohol haze).

She eschews the help of stylists and hair and makeup people, because she knows she's going to spend a lot of time with them in the near future for the party, and she just doesn't have the patience for it twice in one day. She does her own face, sweeps her own hair into a loose chignon, and puts on a dress that doesn't make her feel like she's being pressed in a trash compactor, as so many of the clothes she gets dressed in tend to. She doesn't have Avoxes dress her because she thinks that's ridiculous and also she doesn't like them so close to her boobs. The only actually elaborate thing she wears is the necklace he gave her, heavy on her neck and the entire top of her chest.

A car ferries her to the field, pretty in the light of the setting sun, and she puts out her cigarette as she steps out into the grass and breeze. "You're such a good listener," she teases as she approaches him.

[pimpcanes]

"We're getting old, gloriosa. Our hearing's bound to go any day now."

He sweeps her into his arms, completely aware and heedless of how ridiculous dipping her to kiss her is. He pulls her back up, holding her close and resting his forehead against hers. Today is the day he can spoil her and indulge all his melodramatic tendencies with an excuse beyond mere flamboyance and arrogance.

"That necklace looks almost as good as you do, my dear. I believe I chose well."

[molotov]

She laughs and wraps her arms around him when he dips her, and smiles at him, brushing her nose against his. "So yours is already gone then?" But she doesn't really seem displeased, at least not as long as he's not making a giant public spectacle of her. Doesn't the Capitol do that well enough on their own already? Alone in a field is fine, though.

"It's beautiful," she coos, putting one hand to the side of his face. "I love it. Really."

[pimpcanes]

"Well, I do work around explosives a lot. Hearing damage comes with the territory even before you consider my years." He kisses her again, less dramatically and more intimately this time, on her forehead. "I'm glad. I couldn't find anything perfectly suited for such a beautiful woman so I went with the closest approximation."

[molotov]

"And yet you never seem to have trouble hearing me when I'm inviting you in to shower with me."

Molotov closes her eye as he kisses her head, keeping her hold on him, forgetting that they're in a field and there's a helicopter a hundred yards away from him. "You would have been suitable. I told you to be low-key, not spend the whole day away from me and the bed. And the tub. And back in the bed." She smirks, brushes her nose against his and kisses the corner of his mouth.

"What did you drag me all the way out here for, anyway?"

[pimpcanes]

"Oh, you've been inviting me? I've just been assuming I was inviting myself."

For a moment, their heads bent together prove why the symbol of a heart is so universal, their heads like the two arches and the divots of their necks meeting as the point. He smiles. "There will be plenty of time for beds and bathtubs tonight, my dear. I just worry if we did that first, I'd never leave."

And the world is too grand to contain themselves in bed, no matter how much he adores her.

"I saw how happy you were in that forest Arena. Don't tell me you don't enjoy glaciers."

[molotov]

"You are so fucking smug."

Her tone holds only affection, though, and she runs her fingers through his hair, locks her eye with his and smiles back. She certainly wouldn't mind skipping out on the stupid party she doesn't want, particularly if she could skip straight into the sheets and pillows with Tom, but he does have a point about the glaciers.

"I never even got to go up in the mountains."

[pimpcanes]

"Why is it that even when you're insulting me, I feel like I'm being flattered?"

He leans in and kisses her cheekbone, then breathes past it: "what if I told you I commissioned your own personal glacier for you?"

[molotov]

"Six of one, half dozen of the other," she teases, pinching his cheek gently as he leans in. She draws in a delighted breath, beaming, and holds him tightly to her, looking up at him with a small wriggle of excitement.

"Just tell me you did something more creative than have my face carved into it."

.infinity bar

[molotov]

The bar is big and busy, with seemingly no end to the drinks they can provide. The only caveat is that they seem to serve only one brand of vodka -- Molotov's. Bartenders in lingerie and tight shorts crank out drinks and appetizers, all of them delicious.

There are seats at the bar for those who came alone, and some scattered tables, though they go fast, so you better hurry if you want to claim one. The music is audible but not uncomfortably loud over here, allowing for some conversation that isn't screamed into each other's ears.

.infinity dance floor

[molotov]

The dance floor is packed. Hundreds of sweaty bodies are crammed together and moving almost as a single entity while loud music plays, pulsing and echoing in your ears. The LED floor flashes patterns to the beat, and the lights incessantly flash in different colors.

Don't take a drink into that mob unless you want it spilled all over you.

.infinity VIP

[molotov]

Up a set of carefully guarded stairs, there's a VIP lounge on a balcony, overlooking the dance floor. It comes complete with its own bar and waitresses, comfy sofas and chairs, and big screen TVs that silently play Molotov's lingerie advertisements on repeat.

There are two ways to get up here -- those that Molotov's Sponsors have deemed cool and important enough will have received a wristband made of actual gold, with a single letter M in the center, made of a ruby. And, of course, Molotov herself can always invite you up or wave you in.

Provided she feels like it.

[intenserer]

If there's anything that will entice Rick Ford to go to some sweaty club, it's--well, a lot of things. But lingerie and alcohol pretty much top the list, so he's there like David Bowie on a mountain of blow.

He takes his time finding the party's guest of honor; he doesn't want to seem overeager, after all, doesn't want to come on too hot after their last conversation, but he also knows that avoiding her will only prove her right. He hates when they're right.

Eventually, after a couple of snorts of some designer drug that has him flying high as a fucking kite, and a copious dose of scotch, Ford sidles up to the foot of the staircase, leaning casually up against it with one hand in his suit pocket, the other holding his glass to his lips, while he makes casual attempts to catch Molotov's eye.

[molotov]

Molotov looks bored as hell, if truth be told, her elbows resting on the balcony railing as she looks out over the party. She's loosely holding a martini glass filled with something purple and glittery, edible gold stars floating on the surface, and she's considering dumping it down onto the crowd just to see what they'll do. She expects they'll like it.

Unfortunately for Ford, he's actually off to her left side, which means she doesn't see him at all until the off-duty Peacekeepers acting as bouncers start hassling him and she looks over at the commotion. She doesn't exactly stop them from pushing him around and generally being dicks, but she does gravitate toward the staircase, looking down with one green eye and one swirling galaxy of an eye, her hand on her hip.

"Taking care of it, Miss Cocktease," one of the bouncers tells her, and she shakes her head before taking a sip of her drink, whatever it is. It taste kind of grapey, artificially so.

"Let him up." She tosses one of the gold, cufflike wristbands and walks away as it clinks down the stairs to sit at the feet of the three men. The bouncers reluctantly let go of Ford and one offers the wristband before lifting up the velvet rope that blocks off the stairs. They don't look very happy about this turn of events.

[intenserer]

She looks bored, Ford notes, but the thought doesn't last long once he notices what she's wearing. He nearly whistles under his breath--christ--but he's interrupted by some pansy fucks in white armour, trying to tug him away from the staircase. "Oi, hands fuckin' off," Ford growls, jerking away from the bouncers on either side. "This suit cost more than your dad probably paid for your m--"

She tosses something golden and shiny from the balcony, and the three of them watch almost dumbfounded. Finally, Ford is released, and he steps forward almost triumphantly to collect it, sliding onto his rest where it nestles neatly under the sleeve of his jacket. He smirks at the bouncers. "You 'eard the lady," he nearly sing-songs, trotting up the stairs and holding two fingers up at them behind his back, his native version of the bird.

"Darlin'," he greets Molotov as he ascends, with a devilish grin. "Happy birthday, what're you, twenty five, six?"

[molotov]

By the time he makes it up the stairs, she's taken a seat on one of the overstuffed sofas, positioned to have a simultaneous view of the dance floor and the big screens on the back wall. There are copious amounts of alcohol everywhere, everything from huge bottles of champagne chilling in table wells to whole bottles of vodka being consumed by beautiful, famous people that Molotov doesn't even know. There are dancers in cages, wearing little more than panties, same as the bartender in the back corner.

Molotov lets out a little snort and drains what's left in her glass. "Don't I wish it. Does it even matter, when we can't really get older? I've died four times now, I figure that puts me back at least a year physically." She lights a cigarette and takes another cocktail from a passing waitress. "Were you just going to scrap with them on the stairs if they didn't let you up?"

[intenserer]

Ford has been in a lot of bars, been in a lot of strip clubs and liquor stores, and he's still not certain that he's ever seen this much booze in one place. His face lights up like a Christmas tree. There are women dressed in very little literally all around him. But perhaps unsurprisingly, he only has eyes for Molotov.

He straightens his tie, snatches up a glass of champagne, and pauses a respectable distance from her. "See? 'S'all a matter of perspective, innit." He shrugs. "'Course I fuckin' was."

[molotov]

Her dress makes a very quiet squeaky noise as she shifts and crosses her legs at the knee, and there's another squeaky sound when her latex boots rub against each other, her stockings peering out over the tops. She's uncomfortable and it's obvious, although she's very oblivious to how revealing the outfit is -- it's just tight and hard to move in, and that's not exactly ideal for a party.

"Ah yes, the upside to dying repeatedly and painfully, you don't age as quickly." She takes a sip of the new cocktail, decides she doesn't like it, and then throws it away. Literally. She tosses the entire glass off the side, where it hits the floor and shatters, acting as a catalyst for an Avox in all black to rush forward and begin mopping up the mess, liquid and slivers of glass. She glances over her shoulder with her good eye and yells at all the waitstaff. "I swear to god, either get a vesper martini in my hand in two minutes or I'm going to start flipping the furniture over the balcony! And learn how to make a fucking Moscow mule!"

Molotov is perfectly calm, even smiling, when she looks back at Ford, blinking as the cosmos in her fake eye swirl and sparkle, their dim light reflected on her long, glittery fake lashes. "They're idiots about alcohol here, all their favorite things are colored like children's toys and have enough candy flavoring to give you diabetes. My company literally didn't make clear vodka until I told them to stop putting in the dye." Her drink appears and she takes it with no acknowledgement of the waitress. "Better to be thrown out on your ass than not be in VIP?"

[intenserer]

Surprisingly, Ford keeps his gaze level as Molotov shifts her legs around, despite the fact that he could very easily get a bit of a show out of it. She's made it damn clear that she's taken, and he'll respect that. Unless she tells him otherwise, of course. He's a fucking gentleman but he's not an idiot.

Predictably, he doesn't bat an eye when Molotov sends liquor and glass shattering everywhere. "They should fuckin' know how to make a real fuckin' drink around here, considering everyone who lives 'ere is in a perpetual state of drunken university raver madness. I don't think I've seen a bird who lives here who's 'air isn't cotton fucking candy pink." He shakes his head, before giving Molotov a little wink.

"That's me, darlin', all or no-fuckin-thing. Rick Ford doesn't half-ass anythin'."

[molotov]

He could be lying on the floor to look up her skirt, and Molotov would only be irritated that he's in the way. She's long adjusted to people drooling over her, and it only becomes a bother when they're either impeding her or getting handsy (it's a real problem in Japan).

"They used to try and get me to dye mine, when I first came here, so I threw a bunch of electric hair dressing tools in a basin of water and they've left me alone ever since." She takes a sip of her drink, and it's acceptable. "I got here between Arenas, so they had plenty of time to fuck with me about 'creating an image'. I already have one, I told them that, but they didn't want to work with me while I was still playing nice." She shrugs.

With a snort, she gestures at him. "Be careful with that shit or you'll get executed in public. Literally, I mean, they like to broadcast it. Did it with some green asshole a few months back. You going to stand there all night?"

[intenserer]

Ford snorts mightily, pointing a thick finger at the floor in a definitive gesture. "'Like to see 'em try, wouldn't I." He's had enough assassination attempts made on him in his life to make the Archduke Franz Ferdinand look like a fucking pussy. A bunch of cunts in white suits don't scare him, even if they probably ought to.

Her question has him grinning. "Nah, darl', just didn't want to assume I was allowed." He sits beside her, draping an arm across the back of the sofa. "Posh setup this is, reminds me of one of Naomi Campbell's bashes, only sluttier."

[molotov]

"Don't be stupid enough to give them ideas," she says, gesturing vaguely around them. "Doesn't matter how good you are, they can take anyone in sheer numbers. There's a whole District that they cull them out of, we're talking willing soldiers here."

He sits down and she immediately shifts to swing her legs up and resting in his lap, because it's a lot easier to have them extended straight out while she's in this dress. She's still squeaking.

She huffs disdainfully, taking another deep drink of her martini. "I couldn't give a shit, I don't even want to be here. I'm under contract to show up and stay until two. None of this is my idea of fun, and I don't even like birthdays. 'Oh, congratulations on successfully being born', what bullshit. Just another year closer to death, all of us."

Molotov is really more sour about being made to do something she doesn't want to do, even if she's raking in five figures to do it.

"And don't fuck any of the models, they are all terribly unpleasant from hunger. Go after the vodka girls, if you must."