thecapitol | The only thing that's certain

Who| Meulin & you!
What| Settling into the house and then heading out on the town
Where| D4 House; Speakeasy
When| Second week of the Arena
Warnings/Notes| Talk of arena deaths possibly

A. Closed to D4 House; Meulin's Room
Her room has been quietly set up to her satisfaction with her own two hands. There's a brand new corkboard hanging over the desk courtesy of Taria. It's hand painted like the ocean, but from underneath, with fish swimming along and the dappled rings of sunlight playing over the water above. Half of it is obscured in pictures of them together. Taria had insisted she take that scrap of paper from Celebrus that had her name and picture on it and that, too, is pinned up in the corner. The room shone with light, the shimmering white walls reflecting what comes from the windows that take up half the room. It's bright, just like she likes it.

The door to her room is open but on it hangs a whiteboard for messages to her with her name written prettily at the top. If they catch her inside, she's probably balanced on her desk chair or bed or some unreliable surface to hang a string of shells from some fixture or a picture on the wall. Sometimes, she even climbs her bookshelf to place something on top. Being short leads to innovation and possible injury.

"Aha!" She notices them almost right away and waves them in, "A little help?"

B. Closed to D4 House; Living Room
But later, they'd find her on the couch in front of the television she's not watching with a book in hand. Her attention is utterly captivated, so much so that she wouldn't notice the television channels changing or a person nearby unless they dropped down on the couch beside her. When she's suddenly aware of someone nearby, the book snaps shut and her eyes flick upwards.

"Oh--hi!"

OPEN; Speakeasy

This isn't really a working evening. She's here to watch, drink a little, and try to catch up on the gossip. If things come to her, she won't ignore them, but it's nice to just relax a little. It's even harder to keep up appearances at the new house, surrounded by people engrossed in the games and distancing themselves from the rebellion. She settles in at the bar and beams at the bartender. She's a regular who tips well, of course she's welcome. She greets anyone nearby with a smile and a soft hello.

Later, she steps out into the night, pleasantly buzzed, and pulls a blunt from her purse. Her friends are really awful influences. There's a moment of fumbling for her lighter and a noise of dismay. Her gaze darts around until it rests on the nearest figure.

"Excuse me, do you have a light?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Of course he has an idea--and of course he's running off to go find it. She waits, amused by his enthusiasm. It was just curtains after all. The ones at home had been cast off sheets hemmed all prettily by her mother. It's him though. It would be the same if they were in the District. He'd want something lovely.

And something lovely is what he brings her. She's unsure of what she expected; something floral probably since that seems to be all they make here. How silly of her, when he sews for their District. Sea and shells and beauty is what he offers, spread over something sheer and light. Her eyes light up and already she's contemplating trying to find a bedspread to match. She doubts such exists, but wouldn't that be beautiful.

"Ohhh, that's purrfect! Did you get that special--you don't need it fur your tributes right? I don't want to take from them."

She says that even as she runs her fingers over the lace, tracing the patterns. It'd be possible to sway her from this fabric but it'd be difficult.

It's just as he'd hoped. She lights up, green eyes full up with wonder. She runs her hands over the fabric and speaks just a touch too loud, but it's good. He's beaming at her right up until she begins to doubt.

He waves a hand, shaking his head all the while. Those Tributes won't be wearing this. If he truly needs more, he can get plenty. Disgrace to the lot or not, he is still a Capitolite. But moreover, there is no Tribute more deserving than the girl truly from the District.

No need to sway. They're hers. And he proves so by putting it all into her hands. She can think of it as a homecoming gift. Welcome to you new abode.

He bows his head a little, folding his hands too to express this. Go. See how they look.

Arms full of fabric, she can't hug him so she settles for a kiss on his cheek. It lands closer to his chin with him in heels and her barefoot and she bursts into giggles, nuzzling up under his jaw.

"Thank you, love. It's not really Anna's thing is it? And I think Derek and Chuck would throw it back at you before they agreed to black lace."

That brings up an interesting image, really, that she considers and then puts aside. More important is to see if the vision matches reality. She whirls to the window, settling the excess of the fabric on a chair and holding the two layers up to the window. The light shines through, casting interesting blurred shadows on the floor. She looks back over her shoulder for his approval.

He blinks and brightens, the kiss she gives somehow bringing his smile to life where it's often times just a show. Her sweet laughter fills him, and he brings his hand up to hold her there, at least long enough for him to nuzzle her back.

Of course, she is most mother fucking welcome. He chuckles at her reasoning, as of course it is true. He believes he would win any fight with any of them but his Meulin would do with it much better.

He watches her flit off, watching her for pretty form, for joyous delight. It's a wonder her doesn't forget to look at the shadows that are cast. He nods decisively and gives to certain thumbs up at her in response.

With his seal of approval, she carefully folds the fabric for now. It'll have to be made into curtains, of course, and she'll need curtain rods and things. She hasn't really gotten rid of the shopping trip, just changed the objective, but the curtains she gets now are far nicer than anything she'd have found in the store.

"I shouldn't be surprised you have all sorts of things in your fabric collection. It's a wonders there's room for you at all in that room," she quips, setting the fabric down gently and throwing him a grin over her shoulder, "I frankly suspect to find you sleeping on the stuff some day. Bed forgotten."

She returns to his side, slipping her fingers through his just to have the touch. It's still a thrill to be so close, to call him what he is, to know he feels the same way. She can hardly help it.

He laughs. It comes sudden, and it's got barely a sound, but it shows in the way his head goes back. His features are full mirth and his shoulders shake. Even after he's stopped, that mirth lingers in his smile and in his eyes. A helpless shrug tells that it may just be possible.

He'll have to tell her one day of what it was like through Stylist school. And then of all the Capitol parties where he woke up with no idea how he got to where he was. There was many a tale to write for her. Perhaps they could exchange stories if he manages not to bring up too many a bad memory.

Suddenly, her hands are in his. His girl, his sister, his darling ship kitten. She's here. They're theirs, belonging to each other. Suddenly, none of those bad memories even mother fuckin matter. He leans down to kiss the top of her head.

She'd be delighted to read all about it, to get every detail where they still exist and scold him where they lack. Every detail of the time between his departure and her appearance is important, something to know. She wants to fill in the spaces between until it's one long stretch. Of course, there are places she wants to leave blank, spots she doesn't want filled in, but they must be so far and few between as to barely matter.

He dips down, kisses the top of her head with such fondness. A giggle slips from her, as if she can't help it and though she can't know what he's thinking, she's all fond too. All over thrilled with her choice to come here, be so close and near to him. Not a train away, a city away, years away, just down the hallway. Her smile lifts to meet him, catches his lips before he's moved too far away.

He might agree on the gaps. How many could there be? How wide could the distance be between them when they were both right here? When they were both happy...

The giggle warms him, cause him all the brighter a smile. She kisses him then, despite his stitches, despite himself, and so he stays low with her, pressing against her lips, cupping her jaw in one hand and running the other through her hair. He loves her. So desperately much does he love.

How could that be wrong?

And she loves him. She loves him especially in this moment, kissing her, touching her, smiling with her. It's the little things that feel right. They feel easy, easier with him than anyone else she's tried. She doesn't say that, doesn't want to bring up crass things like comparisons and things.

There's too many things to try to pay attention to, to memorize. The feel of his hand on her hair, his fingertips on her skin, stitches rough against her lips but soft between. He's cute when he leans down to kiss her, actually has to when she's not in heels of her own. There's simply too much she wants to hold on to, wants to keep fresh in her mind. There's too much she wants to cling to, like it might be taken away.

Meulin smiles against his lips, pulling back a breath to kiss his nose and his cheeks.

The only thing that's certain | Closed/Open

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