thecapitol | Your rhinestone eyes are like factories far away

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Your rhinestone eyes are like factories far away

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.

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Tom smirks at that, but there's a chilliness to it, a hesitation. There's drinking, and then there's alcoholism, and it's hard not to remember how Theresa crawled into a bottle for years and blamed him for it.

But Molotov never seems the type to surpass her limits. Maybe because she doesn't have them.

He sighs back. "We've been over this. I don't want Capitol doctors poking around my body any more than they have to. For all we know they'd give me a complimentary rhinoplasty while I was under just because."

It's a blurry line for Molotov, who drinks from the time she wakes up until she goes to bed. But she never seems to have much trouble going sober when necessary, for missions or when she was a Tribute, never really goes through withdrawals or loss of control. It's easy for her to stop at one when she thinks it appropriate. This particular night warrants a different attitude, she feels.

But she can't explain it any better than anyone else. Maybe it was all the years alone. Maybe it's just being Russian.

She huffs and pouts. "I know, but I don't like that it hurts you. And think of everything you could do if it didn't ache all the time. Anyway, you have a good nose, they wouldn't change it."

Well, it's not like Tom abstains from drinking. He's no saint when it comes to alcohol, although he's left the blackout binges in his youth.

He thinks of it all the time, and sometimes he pushes through the pain and does it anyway, and sometimes he allows himself to be reclusive and gentle with himself. The latter always leaves him thinking he'd have felt better just swallowing the pain.

"See, that's exactly why I don't know that they wouldn't. Your coworker Julian had perfectly fine teeth before they replaced them with a horse's, didn't he? For all I know they'll decide my face isn't exotic enough and replace my eyes with shamrocks."

"Julian wanted horse teeth, and anyway, they're back to normal now. Maybe the doctors could do something without surgery. Pain relief or something."

Molotov cranes her neck to kiss the side of his, where she can feel his pulse throbbing, and takes his hand in hers, the one with the enormous ring making it more difficult to lace their fingers together. She exhales contentedly and squeezes his hand tight.

"Actual shamrocks or eyeballs shaped like shamrocks? It's important to be clear on these things."

"I suppose it might be worth examining." He doesn't sound committed to it, and the truth is that he's terrified of doctors after what Killebrew did to him. He'll suffer the pain instead.

He rubs his thumb over the small part of her knuckle not entirely obscured

"Jewels cut into the shapes of shamrocks. Only the glitziest for the Capitol, my dear."

She doesn't say anything more, and she won't push it further, they both know that. But she worries -- that he won't be able to dance with her at their wedding, that he'll become dependent on the cane, that he won't be able to run if they need to run.

"They can use the diamonds they probably thought you'd want on my ring. I won't lie and say I'm not disappointed that I can't use blindness to dress you up as the cereal leprechaun and send you out into the world." Her lips twist wryly as she resettles her head on his shoulder. "Hearts, stars and horseshoes..."

Someday, he'll tell her. He'll explain what they did to him in their experiments, why the cutesy moniker 'tree cancer' doesn't explain what happened, doesn't encompass the torture strapped to that table.

It's not a matter of closeness. It's a part of his past he's not ready to dredge up again. Sometimes it bubbles to the surface, but it's not a place he goes willingly.

"Maybe I'll be blinded by all the gems I'm about to buy you. Then you can have me after your lucky charms by sound alone."

She only wants for him to feel better, to be as whole as he can be made, and she's never fretted this way about anyone else before, so she doesn't know how to suppress the need to dote and question.

"I don't want any gems, I'll give you my lucky charms for free," she says, pulling his hand to her mouth so she can kiss it. "You don't have to buy me things, Tom. That's not who I am, you know."

"Why must you thwart my attempts to show you how much I love you?" He receives the kiss and then cups her face, grinning. "Why must you thwart my attempts to show off, really?"

Because that's what Tom's idea of love is, something solipsistic and cyclical, two people in a feedback loop of affection and passion and ego.

"Because it annoys you." She smiles at him, touches his hands, and the diamond in her ring glints. "Besides, how is it showing off if I can afford my own jewels? Probably more than you can, even. Is that why you proposed, do you need a sugar mama?"

Molotov has a very poor idea of love, and she knows it, knows that what she understands is sick and twisted and poisoned, tied up with hate and fear and something she could never describe with words. She spent half her life stuck in that gnarled mess, and it's tainted everything in her world. But Tom doesn't make her feel that way, or at least not the parts that make her stomach clench, and all she wants is to ensure there's no change, to keep them on solid ground.

She doesn't want it to be ground made of only gifts and grand gestures. That's not much better than punches and blood.

"Do you want us to compare accounts? After all, I have a Victor's wages in addition to all the Sponsorships, and a bit of public humane appeal being a doting father type to Miss Stark."

He strokes her cheek. "No, I don't buy you gifts because you can't afford them. I do it because it's just a more lovely way of expressing how I feel for you."

"Victor's wages are nothing compared to the residuals I get off the 10pm and midnight reruns for PNN," she teases, and they both know that she's just as cushioned in Sponsorships as he is. "But we can start counting bullion if you'd like."

Molotov sighs and tilts her head toward his hand, her eyelid lowering a little as she looks at him. "Nothing is more lovely than you are. That's all I want or need."

"Aye, but I have to express myself. I shudder to think what would happen if I went a day without living out my love for you." Now he's being ridiculous and melodramatic, but he loves it that way. And she loves him, so, she has to deal with the fact that she's engaged to a gibbering moron. "And I can't just tell you. My lips would fall off within the week if I was restricted to just words."

And he kisses her again, in case she needs reminding why she'd miss those lips.

Edited 2015-12-03 01:26 (UTC)

He is a gibbering moron, and as occasionally annoying as it can be, it's also endearing and makes her smile, makes her press her nose to his cheek and nuzzle. For all they're accused of being fakes and liars, willing to do anything to get ahead, Molotov knows that together, the two of them are probably the most genuine thing in the entire Capitol, if not all of Panem.

"Who said you're limited to words?" she murmurs, breaking away just enough to talk. "I can think of things that aren't gifts and aren't words. And when we aren't stuck in the Suite, getting noise complaints slipped under the door..."

"So soon after I already pleasured you?" He rubs his thumb over that muscle along her pelvis, that diving line of fitness and athleticism.

It's true - the two of them share something special, something beyond just love but more akin to finding the perfect puzzle piece to match yours in a box that spans a thousand lives. For all their petty squabbles, Tom sees them as the sun and the moon to each other, hanging in the sky staring at each other in adoration over a boring world's horizon.

"If it's what my beloved wants, then I can't do it enough."

She snorts, wraps her arms around his waist and locks her hands on the other side, fingers knotted together. "I was only making a suggestion, since you're so devoid of creativity."

But she can't bear to imagine them as the sun and moon, doomed to always be separated, dying once a day so the other can live, only catching each other for a few moments at a time. She could never handle the ache to even think about it, the heavy and painful weight that expands in her ribs when they're apart for more than a day, that she spent weeks suffering through until it threatened to drag her into herself.

Galaxies are better; they can collide and combine, become greater together than they ever were apart.

Whatever that feeling is that swells inside her and scares her when she thinks about how much she loves him, it swells now, seems to pulse down her arm and into her finger to live under the band of the ring he gave her as well as in her chest. Molotov breathes hard for a moment, the inhale catching in her throat, and she puts her face to his shoulder because her vision is blurring.

"You could be paralyzed and deaf and blind, and all I would ever want is to lie beside you in your hospital bed."

"You'd get bored of me," he teases, but it sounds wrong to tease about that when she's being so genuine, when it's true that he's terrified of what will happen when he grows older. If his body starts breaking down again, if he's sickly and dying once more while she's still young and vivacious and active. He wonders if she would have fallen in love with him if she had met him back during his first battle with the disease, when he had wasted away to skin and aching bones and a blood-filled cough.

There's no saying it won't happen again. Perhaps it's even more likely, with the way Panem chooses to meddle with their celebrities, adding cyborg enhancements, changing their ages at a whim. He'd almost rather she be sick than him, because he knows it's in him to dote and nurture and doesn't know that she has those same instincts.

Not that he would ever wish her sick. He ghosts her fingers over her shoulder as he thinks of these sad hypotheticals.

For now, they're healthy and in love, and not even an act of God could change that, he's sure.

"You would learn to tap morse code onto my skin to tell me about all the money you're making and how stupid your Stylist is."

"Never," she murmurs, shaking her head, and inhales sharply to quell the way her eye is stinging with tears. "Never. And I already know morse code, so I suppose I'm already prepared."

Molotov couldn't tell him if she would have fallen in love when he was sick, but she could tell him about Monstroso's heart transplant, that they'd been together for months while his huge, overworked heart was failing, how she'd gone to insane lengths to ensure his safety, to rescue him after it all. Her loyalty, rare as it is, tends to outweigh her selfishness and skittish nature. Her concern is more possessive and sharklike than his, but there all the same.

She might not have same capacity to fawn that he does, but it's not something she lacks, either -- she's just never needed to really do it before. Her father was murdered, her ex mostly physically recovered by the time she saved him. Tom's been a father, lived through his own sickness, always had people around. Their worlds were so different before.

It's not anything she has to think about, it's just something she knows: that no matter what befalls them now, there's nothing that can tear her away. No one else she'd rather be around.

"I want to move soon. As soon as we can. I want it to be just us."

"So do I. Maybe we share more of a language in common than just English." He reaches over and rubs a thumb under her eye, as if encouraging her to let a tear fall just so he can wipe it away. "Did you know I speak fluent Russian? Someday when we get these translator chips done away with, I'll prove that to you, lass."

God, he loves her. He loves her and any obstacle in the way of expressing that is some mortal offense that he feels the need to annihilate, and just like that, won't let me speak Russian becomes his number one beef with the Capitol.

"Where to, my dear?" Tom knows he'll miss the city, and in his head he's already imagining cottages or chalets instead of a real home somewhere else - a landing pad for when the attention and spotlights drain them, or rather her, too badly. He isn't really imagining that they'd ever leave the site of the action, the place where if not everything happens then at least everything is instantaneously reported.

His thumb pulls her waterline down just enough to let the tear spill, though she almost automatically raises her hand to try and get rid of it as quickly as possible. "I believe you, you know. It wouldn't matter if you couldn't speak Russian, I don't care. I wish I could, though. I can think in Russian, dream in it. But not speak, it just comes out wrong."

It's the one thing she's been very openly critical of the Capitol about, that they've taken away her mother tongue, though she supposes it must be so innocuous a complaint that no one actually cares if she brings it up. Either that, or that she's proven herself reliable enough to allow her the grudge over something so personal.

"Anywhere." Molotov knows that they'd never be allowed to move out of the city, not further than the outskirts, because it would grant them too much freedom. Even location is fuzzy for her, because she only sees some kind of house, an old-style dacha or bungalow maybe, covered in ivy and wisteria and surrounded with gardens, because in her mind, Tom will somehow get his powers back and be able to better garden. Fireplaces that he can light in an instant, a gate with an arch above it at the end of the walkway. A dog to sleep at the foot of their bed. Twinkly lights at Christmas. It's strange and mildly uncomfortable for her, to have such domestic fantasies, but still they exist. "Anywhere that isn't the Tower."

He frowns, thinking of how she can't express herself the way that comes most naturally to her. It probably upsets him more than her.

"Oh, of course we wouldn't want to live in the Tower. It's just a matter of time before someone brings scabies into the place." Besides, as much of a kick as Tom gets out of antagonizing the people he lives with, it might be nice to not be surrounded by people looking to trip him, steal his cane or spit in his food when he's not looking.

"We could move into that castle. Have you ever lived in a castle before, my gloriosa? It's unlike anything else." It reminds Tom of his childhood in all the best ways, back when he used to lie habitually about being descended from kings or the like.

She curls up, tucks her legs at her side and rests her head on his shoulder with a sigh, rubbing his thigh with one hand. "No," she says softly, closing her eye before another tear can escape. "I grew up in a cabin, then a military compound. Then just... wherever. I never had a permanent place before a few years ago, when I set up base in Los Angeles."

For a moment, she thinks about it, that strange castle with the now-broken portrait of Maeve, weird rooms that are somehow outdoors while being indoors. Plants everywhere, growing into and out of the walls. She honestly doesn't even know if there are any proper living spaces in there, if it was built for that or just for a ridiculous party.

"We could try it."

"What was your base in Los Angeles like? I've been to the city a few times, but never lived outside a hotel in one. Certainly never tracked down something to call a lair." Because Tom's just that cliched of a villain; he can't imagine taking a place for his own and not turning it into some kind of lair. A base of operations just seems too benign.

Tom checked out a few of the rooms while he was there. It'll be livable. They'll have to make some adjustments, but God knows they have the money for that.

"Aye. If that's what my beloved wishes."

She snorts a little. "I meant base metaphorically, really. Certainly not a lair. Blending in makes you harder to find. I had the top floor of a building for my offices, for me and the girls. And a condo in Beverly Hills to stay in, when I was in town. I never put much effort into decorating or anything, though."

Of course, her actual idea of decorating prior to roughly now has mostly been putting pictures of herself up, or flowers out. Furniture is bought by the room, mostly in whites and creams, black and red and gold accents, with little to no consideration actually put into it. All her personal touches come in the form of small, familiar items -- perfume bottles and jewelry left out, shoes and lingerie abandoned on the bedroom carpet. Having a space that she'll be expected to make into a home will be significantly new to her.

"I just want to be away from everyone else. Just you and me."

"When we choose a place, I'll take the whole week to decorate it for you. I want you to walk in and immediately know it will never be anyone's but yours and mine," he whispers into her hair. Yes, he's getting excited about decorating - hopefully by now Molotov's keened on to the idea that her betrothed is a little metro.

He can imagine it now, a castle that smells of her perfume, that bears the traces of her like a wildcat's den does its inhabitant. Windowpanes that have only ever known her fingerprints, showers that they can fuck each other in and be as loud as they want not out of spite but from mere pleasure. It's near enough to get him hard again.

"I'll make that happen."

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molotov - 2015-12-27 15:13 (UTC) - Expand

/wrap [so we can start new things huehue]

pimpcanes - 2015-12-31 22:40 (UTC) - Expand

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