thecapitol | Can't Stop The Rain

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Can't Stop The Rain

Who| Cassian and Jason, Cassian and YOU???
What| Bad things are happening after the interview and Cassian gets called out, then his cousin gets reaped. Jason really isn't happy.
Where| Around the Tribute Tower
When| After the reaping of his cousin.
Warnings/Notes| Swearing, violence, smoking??, drug use discussion

D7 Suite

It's quiet. Cassian is there, but it's quiet. That should be enough of a warning that something was off. He wants to blast music loud enough to rock the tower, dance around and pretend that everything was fine, he wants to throw on mask upon mask until nobody knows what his real face looks like. Certainly, he's at least managed that part in regards to his body: If he's going to be gawked at, a sideshow display of a seditious citizen, he's going to be looking as glamorous as possible. So he coats his face with enough make up to hide his insecurity, and he puts on his favorite dress, that makes him feel strong and in control and everything is going to be fine, because everything has always been fine, and his life is not a mess.

Cassian doesn't usually stay much in his room in the tower, but since the interviews, he's been pretty much living there, and now, he's making the place suit him even more. Currently, he's in the kitchen area, packing the fridge with yet more food. Ever since the credit system dropped, he's been buying goodies for his tributes. It's an uneasy compromise with Jason--A compromise that Jason might not even consider one, but Cassian doesn't want to be accused of undermining his efforts to make the tributes work for a living. So, the fridge has had plenty of snacks and little fun treats that the tributes might not be able to afford, but would help them cheer up.

However, now Cassian is shoving his own food in it. Luxurious food that only needs to be microwaved, as little actual cooking with as much taste as possible. He really needs to get a cooking avox, but those ones are even harder to find than regular avoxes. And of course, who knows if he'll be able to afford an avox after this?

At that thought, his eyes drift down to his phone, laying there on silent. He's had to turn it on silent since it all but blew up after the announcement. Of course he's been on social media, just like Aurelia has been, gushing about what an honor this is, how exciting this was, putting on the most positive face they could. They both have to save face. Naturally, neither have spoken to each other.

And there's one text message that Cassian actually cares about, and when he's sure he's alone, he opens up his phone and looks at it. The most important text message. His father, telling him in no uncertain terms that he isn't to return home until they decide what to do about this. Every time he reads it, he feels his heart clench up. Surely. Surely this would all work out. Surely Cassian could get out of this.

This couldn't be the end.

The Tribute Tower

He's still in shock, and he's still afraid to spend much time out in public, where he can't just text someone ten smiley faces and make it seem like he's okay. So he spends his time in the tower, away from the media. Some of the time he spends actually getting work done, and he can be found in the lobby, curled up in an arm chair and scribbling away at various designs. He has music now, because music makes him able to forget about all the bad things going on. The only thing that could be noted as unusual is that he's smoking cigarettes like they're about to go on the Ugly List. He wants to dip into something stronger than them, but he's hesitant about doing that in the tower.

When all else fails, there's alcohol, and Cassian can also be found at the bar, chugging back drinks. Every few sips, he pops out a compact mirror to make sure that it hasn't smudged his lipstick, and once he's sure he looks just as flawless as he ever does, he goes back to drinking. The current goal is to drink until he forgets his own name, and so far, he's only managed to forget most of his school education.

It's so odd. The Games have been going on forever. He wouldn't even care, couldn't care if it was someone else. But suddenly, it's effecting him. A Capitolite. He's always been above everything bad, it couldn't happen to him. And now his cousin is going to go die in an arena--Because there's no way she could win. Aurelia will clean your ass when it comes to social media, and destroy your good name on twitter, but she couldn't kill someone in real life. Cassian had never been close with the girl, she was the heir, he was just the back up. His job was to make connections, socialize, look pretty, and make the name Bouchard look good. Basically--don't do anything stupid.

And yet, here he was, having done something spectacularly stupid, and now it was Aurelia paying for it.

Cassian felt like this was a dream, or maybe all of his life before that had been the dream, and he had just woken up.

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When the Reaping was announced, there was almost no way he wasn't going to get the most powerful joints he could get his hands on. The results were irrelevant, one way or other, he needed his mind blown so far out of his skull he wouldn't be thinking for days.

He'd almost lost everything. He'd been that close to losing his world, his purpose, the only reason he cared for anything anymore. District four was important, everyone there, but it's so distant, so much less real than his brother is. Even if he's no more seen his brother recently than he has the District. He was fighting for four on the face of it, but moreover, he was fighting for him. And it could've been for nothing.

It's a call too close not to shake him. It still is, hours later, face all cleaned up again. He brings the blunt up between his newly stitched threads and lights with with quavering hands. He'd intended to look up at the stars. All he can look is down, seeing through everything to a future that could have been and a past that was.

His little brother's photograph is in hand, and the only reason he's not holding onto it like it's a lifeline is because he fears crumpling it. He's got a pad of paper and pen at his side and some extra rolls for those he suspects will come. Like Porrim who shows up for perhaps the same reason as himself. Or Cassian, who follows, bearing the worst. He just offers the light to them because what fuckin good did words ever do anyway.

It doesn't take long after the announcement for Porrim to find Kurloz. After the message from President Snow, she'd been on tenterhooks for days, alternating between completely emotionally void and having short but violent panic attacks on her bathroom floor, avoiding phone calls from her parents wondering what was happening. Wondering whether or not they needed to be concerned about Kanaya.

The very thought of it had sickened her--the thought of Kanaya being sent forth into the Arena like a lamb for the slaughter. She'd taught her sister to defend herself, yes, but there's a huge difference between a lech on the street and a pack of bloodthirsty Careers.

And it would be all her fault, she's more than certain of that.

So in the wake of the news that her sister is safe, that she doesn't have to watch her torn to shreds, Porrim can only stumble up to the rooftop, half-expecting and, indeed, finding Kurloz up there, too. She sinks down next to him, wordless in her relief, having found someone she doesn't have to talk to. She's more than content to merely sit beside him, legs drawn up to her chest, letting thick clouds of smoke trail from her mouth and nostrils and up toward the sky while her head slowly begins to swim in a way that's perfectly distracting.

When Cassian shows up, she blinks up at him, wide eyed. "Hey. Join the party."

He trails up to the roof like a ghost, feeling as distant from everything as if he were truly ethereal, and he can only wish that it were true. He wishes there were some kind of barrier between him and what his life was right now, that he would phase back in and find out that everything was okay.

But that's not going to happen, and Kurloz and Porrim are offering the second best option--If his body has to be here, his mind isn't as bound. He figured they'd be someone like here, away from the prying eyes and the media. He usually loved those prying eyes, and having them turned against him was new, uncomfortable. It felt like he woke up and his skin wasn't his anymore.

At Porrim's invitation, he sinks to the ground, sprawling out like a child with no sense of class, because he can't be assed right now, and reaches for what she's got. He doesn't care what it is, he just knows it'll fuck him up and that was exactly what he needed. And in truth, as grey eyes dart between the two other stylists, he doesn't have it in him to even be angry about their good luck, because their good luck isn't that good. And if he has to be brutally honest, if he can separate himself from the emotion of his world crumbling, he knows that in truth, he gives the least amount of shits between the three of them. She was a cousin, not a sibling. And kind of a bitch, to be honest.

It was the impact that it had on his life that shook him up, and even Cassian has the self awareness to know that whatever happened, however life took him with Aurelia in the arena, her death wouldn't effect him as much as these two would have taken their siblings being reaped. It's a strange moment of clarity, and he doesn't like it.

"Still getting hit up for the exclusive parties, huh." His voice is wry, and the smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I knew I'd still be in the big leagues after this." And, after a small pause: "Are your families speaking to you yet?"

He knows it well, the look of someone glad they don't have to talk and explain whatever it is that they're feeling. The thing was, he knew it better from before he was stitched. The Capitol doesn't take to it, and though he understands why, and though he's fought to prove himself despite, it's been a long few years.

Porrim settles and he finds he appreciates the company. No pressure, no needs. Just a passing of some sweet leaf and getting gone the motherfuck to it.

He's faintly amused in the worst of ways over the new comradery. These Capitolites, lest they felt happenstance of some shit on their lives, will never be the same again. He knows this well. All that pretending will start feeling like just that and there ain't no stopping it. There will be a great looking backways and wish of ignorance without the calamity it brings in truth.

He snorts at the joke. Then he goes to bring his hands up, over, and around, gesturing at the rooftop. The grandest party of all. He wonders then if Cassian really will be discarded or held lofty by this city's people. Would depend on odds, he thinks.

He snorts again, but this time his mouth takes a brief bitter twitch. He fishes for his pen and paper.

NOT A SINGULAR VOCALIZATION HAS COME BY THIS HOMIE FROM FAMILY MINE SINCE SWEET YOUTH OF SIX FUCKIN TEEN.
MUST FIGURE IT BY NOW HOW UNSIGHTLY A BLIGHT A MUTE WOULD BE ON AS PROUD A NAME AS THEIRS.

Edited 2015-09-21 02:23 (UTC)

She's not surprised when Cassian sinks down next to them; it's the ideal situation if you want peace and quiet; a mute and a woman far too disillusioned with Capitolite antics to want to pester him. She passes the blunt over without question; it's not exactly hers to share, but she knows Kurloz won't mind. That's what this is about: letting off some mutual steam.

His question has her, too, snorting, almost in unison. "They're not terribly happy with me, but it's more that I'm not exactly...eager to take their calls." Her speech is less crisp than usual; the pot has made her voice a little slower, a little sleepier.

Ruffnut has been oddly subdued since the announcement. One might expect that from normal offworlders but Ruffnut has always had somewhat of a zest for the arena that was more fitting of a career tribute even if her skills didn't match.

Shuffling out of her room in the fluffy fleece pajamas that she had grown so fond of she stopped short of the kitchen area. She hadn't actually spoken to Cassian since the display that she had been a part of and in a weird way she would have preferred running into Jason. At least she knew how he would react. A low grumble of protest from her stomach warned her that hesitation would not be tolerated for long.

Ruffnut's own stomach betrays her, and Cassian's head jerks up, turning around to look at her. His expression is unusually somber, the seemingly unlimited energy that fueled him suddenly run out. For a few moments, he does nothing but stare at her with that uncharacteristic expression, before he goes back to the business of shoving food that were TV dinners if the 1% ate TV dinners.

Finally, he speaks.

"Did you really do it to honor the dead?" His voice is quiet, thoughtful. He doesn't turn to face Ruffnut, instead pulling out a pint of ice cream and a spoon, and popping the lid open, shoving the fridge closed. "Or was that just a lie?"

Well...that's chilling.

She feels suddenly a little guilty for the whole thing. Was she aware of what she was doing? Sure. Was she gonna cop to it? No way.

"Aang told us it was and I dunno about you but...look at that kid. I don't think he even knows how to lie."

A deflection, maybe not a particularly good deflection but it didn't have to be. After all that's what Aang had told them all to do right?

"I said we should light something on fire to honor them like we do back where i come from but nobody seemed to like that idea."

Jason doesn't stick around for the announcement of the winners. He runs up the stairs, jumping almost, too impatient for the elevator from the ground floor to the District Suite. If he hadn't snagged his toe and tripped on the way up, he probably would have gotten up before Cassian and Aurelia put on their little announcements, so it's probably fortunate that he skinned a knee and didn't get a chance to interrupt anything important before grabbing Cassian by the shoulder and slamming him into the wall behind him.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Jason's so angry that he feels like his limbs are being animated by something larger than he is, that coordination and finesse have been discarded to the wayside in favor of mere fervor. His teeth feel like ball-bearings in his mouth, his face numb and mouth full of saliva. "Are you trying to ruin us all? Are you trying to ruin everything I've worked for?"

He's hit Cassian in the face even before he realizes he's raised his hand.

The yelling, the words, they aren't a problem. Jason yells, no big deal. Cassian's gotten pretty good at tuning that out. But this is different. His words aren't too off from his usual fare of being accused of trying to tank the entire district by dressing Ruffnut in carefully glued leaves. But the tone, the touching, the way Jason looks like he could kill him. Cassian's spent his whole life in a carefully distanced bubble from everyone else. But here is Jason, his hands invading that personal bubble, with emotion radiating off of him with an intensity that frightened anyone with two brain cells to rub together, and Cassian had at least that much to spare.

He's never been hurt by another person in his life. Not intentionally, at least. His parents had never raised a hand, and his enemies used poison-laced words to wound, never their hands. For a moment, all Cassian can do is stare in total, and horrified confusion. Cassian's been introduced to a lot of new feelings lately, and here's another to add to the pile: fear for his safety. Instinct kicks in before his brain can process what's going on, because it, at least, has an idea how to react to this: Screaming.

It's only after his head hits the wall with a solid thunk that the shrieks start to form words. "They were honoring the dead! That's what they said! They were showing respect to the children who came before them--I thought--It just seemed--"

Then the hit comes, and Cassian just gives another shriek, higher pitched than before. It's not pain that's making him larp as a banshee, but that fear for himself. That fear only intensifies when Jason doesn't stop hitting him, despite the wails that grow louder.

"Let me go! Jason, stop it!"

Because at this point, his only real defense that he could conceivable pull off is making a big enough scene to get someone's attention. And at least, he's got some skill at that.

Edited 2015-09-21 03:57 (UTC)

Of all the times to pick the wrong floor at the tower elevator, it had to be the day Jason Compson was beating the shit out of a Bauchard. Sinclair was supposed to meet Swann over for a quick hand-off of an investor check but suddenly this day just got interesting and violent. And it's not even the Arena! Ha...and of course it had to do with the most vitriolic of all the Escorts in Panem.

"What the hell does Honeymead see in you, Compson?" Gus muttered under his breath before stepping out in his good standing towards this clusterfuck of rage and screaming.

"Oh come on, he's barely 90 pounds wet, Jason! Are you really gonna get in trouble for this skinny litte wretch?" Augustus called out, not wanting to get his hands dirty. That's for the damn tributes to do, he ain't touching this one.

Edited 2015-09-21 04:08 (UTC)

Cullen is only passing through - there are a lot of floors between his own, in district 2, and Adella's, in 12, but he often takes the stairs instead of the elevators because, well. He doesn't like the elevators, and he needs to keep in shape, anyway.

He's just passing district 7 when he hears an unholy shriek, and all his instincts kick in, almost immediately. His hand goes for a sword that isn't there, and he pushes through the door onto - someone beating another person, and the victim screeching bloody murder.

"Oy!" he calls, striding across the room to pull the man off. "Break it up!"

In comparison to Cassian, Jason grew up in violence, the beaten child of a beaten child of a general, the corporal discipline going back generations upon generations until no one could ever remember who came up with the idea of taking a switch or belt or fist to a child for any infraction, or who first decided that it was entirely irrelevant if the slight was real or imagined. It isn't just him that lays a hand to Cassian now (again and again) but a bloodline of Compson tempers surging like the sea.

"Don't touch me, you filthy offworlder!" Jason yells, breaking away from Cassian more to put space between him and Cullen than anything else. He lashes out at Cullen but is about a mile off in his aim, then makes to stalk to the other side of the room. There's blood on his knuckles and palm from Cassian's mouth, and it's evident that Jason's hand was already swollen and bruised even before all this. He casts glares at both Cassian's rescuers.

"He's going to get us all killed or Avoxed as traitors because he's too stupid to think-" Jason lunges for Cassian again, shoving past Cullen.

Normally, Cassian would protest at being called a wretch, and certainly protest at being 90 pounds--Though he was skinny, of course he was, he spent good money on pills that made sure of that. But right now, he was completely unconcerned with verbal assaults, not when Jason wouldn't stop hitting him. The iron taste in his mouth was new and it tasted awful and it smelled worse, but it filled Cassian's senses all the same, like he'd just been on the worst trip of his life.

But then Cullen steps in, and seems to repel Jason back with his very presence. As soon as Jason's hands are off of him, Cassian crumples to the floor. All decor is forgotten, and he's just crying in a pathetic heap. Shock, and pain, and the shock of being in pain keep him there as Jason stalks the suite, like a lion denied its meal. He doesn't say anything to his own defense at first, trying to wipe the blood off his mouth, and the tears out of his eyes.

It's hard to process anything that's going on right now, but Jason lunges, and those base instincts kick in again. He doesn't even think about shame or how it looks when he rolls up and flings himself behind Cullen, who's taller than both of them and has more muscles than the three capitolites in the room combined. And he already moved to help Cassian. It didn't take a genius to figure out that he was the best hope he had for a wall between him and Jason.

"Please don't let him hurt me! I wasn't trying to get anyone hurt, I just wanted to help the kids!" He plead, voice breaking midway for a little sob. "They were so excited about it...!"

"Enough," Cullen says, the commanding tone creeping into his voice. He's not violent by nature, not volatile of temper the way Jason is, but he's hardly a pacifist, either. It's easy enough, with his years of training and discipline, to position himself between the two, an immovable wall. He's been threatened with demons, abominations, the twisted innards of his own dark imaginings - a screaming man with nothing but his fists isn't something he will balk at.

"Do we not have peacekeepers?" Cullen asks the room at large. "To, I don't know, keep the peace?"

"Jason shut the hell up," Nothing in this world will ever stop Augustus from enjoying this moment of telling Jason to back down. Saving Cassian was just a side effect, "Because last I checked, he's not the one disturbing the peace and punching a Capitolite. Even if it's a brainless pile of glitter."

Cassian is not spared from the venom in Sinclair's voice. He was an idiot, a tasteless act that deserved Snow's ire. The peacekeepers are coming to split the riot as the capitalist then turned to the offworlder, "You'd best take this waste of space to the infirmary."

And for Bouchard, "I hope you're happy."

Jason doesn't back down because he's afraid of Sinclair or Cullen. His fury only balks not at opposition but at vanity. He only steps away because he realizes the futility of trying to reach Cassian now, and so he throws his hands to the side and stalks again to the far corner of the room.

"He should be. He's managed to get away with tanking this entire District, which might as well have been his entire goal with the stunt he just pulled."

The Peacekeepers all but kick down the door, having been summoned, and they have cuffs out. Jason looks surprised and more offended than scared.

"Are you serious? With Cassian here enabling traitors?"

Even in the middle of all this mess, a Tribute has to eat. And what a mess it is. One that she feels partially responsible for, even if she had no idea what she'd been apparently setting off. She'll have words with Aang later, but first, food. A snack to fill her stomach and clear her mind.

"...oh." Well, perhaps if she can make her way around Cassian, first. Though she's immediately not sure that she should. Not sure that she wants to. The news is already out, it's not good, and she's become fond of her stylist. "...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." If this was even the smallest bit her fault, then she should apologize. And so she does, hands clasping, head bowing, contrite in a way far more heartfelt and genuine than any muttered smooth-it-over apology she might have ever given Jason.

If Cassian had to pick a list of tributes who would possibly get him in trouble, Gritta would be pretty low on that list. Even with her expose, Gritta never seemed like the type of person to purposely lie and cause harm. Ruffnut wasn't as much of a surprise to pull a boneheaded move, but Gritta?

He turns to look at her, closing the door. He's more serious than he's been before--No smiles, no sparkling eyes, and no overabundance of energy. And that serious face is frowning at Gritta. "Did you know?" He asks quietly. "Were you really trying to honor the dead? Why did you do it?"

Emily has tried to keep to herself as much as possible since the Tribute Parade. She'd barely been able to keep in the panic attack that had threatened to engulf her as the children from the Districts had been unveiled, and as soon as she was able, she'd excused herself to hide in the bathroom, trembling and hyperventilating and trying not to vomit. She knew Hemlock, recognised her from back home. It was jarring to see her here, and now that she'd had some space to think about it, Emily had realised just how complacent she'd become in putting offworlders through the Arenas, with most of them being restored to life afterwards anyway.

She knows she's going to have to confront everyone eventually. She's disappointed in her Tributes - three of the six involved in that demonstration having come from Seven - and feels that she's failed them, that she should have done more to keep them in line, to see something like this coming. She tries to forget about the burning pain and anger she'd felt at seeing Calder's name, and Lurio's too, written for all of Panem to see and to remember. She knows she should be grateful to them, but she's too afraid to be. She's worked so hard to keep her head down and get on with things, and she can't have them rocking the boat for her, not now.

Then there's Cassian. Emily knows she ought to feel sorry for him, having his family reaped, as that was the one thing she'd always feared more than anything. But she can't quite bring herself to do so. There was a part of her that had felt a sadistic pleasure in knowing that Capitolites would have to suffer a little of what the Districts had felt for so long. But she also isn't sure whether Cassian had anything to do with the children's demonstration to begin with; the Stylists were the ones who had been targeted with this punishment, after all.

She leans against a counter in the kitchen, arms folded, frowning a little as she looks over him.

"How are you holding up?"

"Hey. Hey."

A well-dressed, well-groomed, understated-but-tasteful Stephen Reagan slips into the seat next to Cassian.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

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Can't Stop The Rain

CW: drugs - Rooftop???

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D7

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Sorry!

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D7 Suite

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D7

Bar -- hope it's not too late to tag into this!