quiethumerus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
quiethumerus) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-10-14 10:59 pm
quiethumerus) wrote in thecapitol2015-10-14 10:59 pm
I see war on the screen, it is cruel and unclean, but I still worry more about you
Who| Kurloz & Phi, Kurloz & D4 house (Open prompt on request)
What| Illicit religion, dressing Phi up for a not-date, some tips.
Where| D4 house, the Tribute Tower.
When| Wobbly time, one week before the arena to now.
Warnings/Notes| Lots of mouth stitching refs (mutilation), drug/smoking reference, probably swears. NSFW for sex tips (gj Derek).
A
Kurloz's end of the home looks like an occult shop, were such things to exist within the Capitol. His room is dedicated to his work mostly, but so too is it filled with all the skulls and bones of his office in the Tower. Dried herbs for the simply aesthetic, dusty books as old as they come in Panem filling the shelves, and all manner of oddities. Mannequin's in draping fabric stand like ghosts. The door is kept closed if he's not in it, lest the dog come barging in and disturb poor Cal, the shimmering snake in the corner.
His needles sit in rows, the ones for stitching up clothes in one part, and the ones for silencing him on the other side of the room, plentiful medical grade suture thread sitting beside it. He considered beading it today, to take the edge off of his threads, but then there's also the ribbon. He sees someone walk by the door and he rushes to greet them, holding shimmering beads in one hand and a ribbon in the other. He weighs both then points to himself, nodding to encourage them to choose for him. What do you think?
B
Derek and Chuck tend to sleep through the night, bound to their early schedules. He can expect Anna and Meulin to follow, usually. He got a little practice living with others in the Tribute Tower, but this is a little different. This is closer, and he's realising, it's not all unlike a family. He smiles all through the day, false and genuine in equal measure. At night he is the sliver in an otherwise perfect palm.
He does not sleep like the others do. Insomnia strikes to keep him up and nightmares come in his sleep to keep him restless. He doesn't remember what dreams are like or if he ever had any, though he knows with the right hit toward high, he can go down dreamless. But it takes more than that, he believes.
He flicks the TV on, thumb ready on the mute option to keep it quiet. He sees Mollusc with Meulin's pearl around his neck, the Bouchard girl, Cassian's cousin. He sees Azhira, smiling, a calm in chaos and heart of gold. He sees Azhira the other way, with teeth all bared with anger he never wields unless he's told, except at him, except in tantrum. He watches with smile out of sight and blank eyes, flicks the TV back off, and in the room where he does his work and has prepared his mostly-secret alter, he goes to kneel.
His palms fold together.
C - For Phi
He still goes back to the tower, of course. His job is everything right now and he's not about to eschew it because of some child. Besides, he's got another girl in his District. Everyone knew girls were more fun to dress than boys. It was a simple fact of existence. He's jotted down all manner of ideas, his list growing quite extensive.
His surprise and glee when it turned out she had opted to come to him, saving him from catching and stopping her on the way out like could have easily been the case. His eyes brighten and he invites her in, gesturing to a dark cushioned seat.
What| Illicit religion, dressing Phi up for a not-date, some tips.
Where| D4 house, the Tribute Tower.
When| Wobbly time, one week before the arena to now.
Warnings/Notes| Lots of mouth stitching refs (mutilation), drug/smoking reference, probably swears. NSFW for sex tips (gj Derek).
A
Kurloz's end of the home looks like an occult shop, were such things to exist within the Capitol. His room is dedicated to his work mostly, but so too is it filled with all the skulls and bones of his office in the Tower. Dried herbs for the simply aesthetic, dusty books as old as they come in Panem filling the shelves, and all manner of oddities. Mannequin's in draping fabric stand like ghosts. The door is kept closed if he's not in it, lest the dog come barging in and disturb poor Cal, the shimmering snake in the corner.
His needles sit in rows, the ones for stitching up clothes in one part, and the ones for silencing him on the other side of the room, plentiful medical grade suture thread sitting beside it. He considered beading it today, to take the edge off of his threads, but then there's also the ribbon. He sees someone walk by the door and he rushes to greet them, holding shimmering beads in one hand and a ribbon in the other. He weighs both then points to himself, nodding to encourage them to choose for him. What do you think?
B
Derek and Chuck tend to sleep through the night, bound to their early schedules. He can expect Anna and Meulin to follow, usually. He got a little practice living with others in the Tribute Tower, but this is a little different. This is closer, and he's realising, it's not all unlike a family. He smiles all through the day, false and genuine in equal measure. At night he is the sliver in an otherwise perfect palm.
He does not sleep like the others do. Insomnia strikes to keep him up and nightmares come in his sleep to keep him restless. He doesn't remember what dreams are like or if he ever had any, though he knows with the right hit toward high, he can go down dreamless. But it takes more than that, he believes.
He flicks the TV on, thumb ready on the mute option to keep it quiet. He sees Mollusc with Meulin's pearl around his neck, the Bouchard girl, Cassian's cousin. He sees Azhira, smiling, a calm in chaos and heart of gold. He sees Azhira the other way, with teeth all bared with anger he never wields unless he's told, except at him, except in tantrum. He watches with smile out of sight and blank eyes, flicks the TV back off, and in the room where he does his work and has prepared his mostly-secret alter, he goes to kneel.
His palms fold together.
C - For Phi
He still goes back to the tower, of course. His job is everything right now and he's not about to eschew it because of some child. Besides, he's got another girl in his District. Everyone knew girls were more fun to dress than boys. It was a simple fact of existence. He's jotted down all manner of ideas, his list growing quite extensive.
His surprise and glee when it turned out she had opted to come to him, saving him from catching and stopping her on the way out like could have easily been the case. His eyes brighten and he invites her in, gesturing to a dark cushioned seat.
B
She thinks the sea might help, the sound and smell and sights, but it's impossible for any number of reasons. The hallways are empty and as she heads for the kitchen. A light around the doorway to Kurloz's room catches her gaze, draws her off her path.
He must still be up and he surely won't mind her stopping in. His room is such a different atmosphere, maybe that can calm her thoughts. His hands in her hair and the scent of his candles and herbs in the air. She feels herself relax at the thought and she knocks even as she opens the door.
She wasn't sure what she expected. Fabric in his hands or a book carelessly spread on his knees. Smoke curling from his lips. Or even him asleep, the lights forgotten and having to put out his candles and sitting at the foot of his bed until she breathes deep enough to drift to sleep herself. Her head tilts in a strange parody of his own curious glances. She doesn't know what to make of him, knelt with palms together, until she vaguely recalls it. Praying. Another thought comes with the realization. It's illegal, she's fairly sure of that.
"I'm sorry," her voice is soft, too soft, like she's not sure she should disturb him, "I saw the light."
B
He stares with uncharacteristic fight behind him, taking in not Peacekeepers, but Meulin. He's frozen still, his hands still hovering in air. The roundness of his eyes is a confession good as any, an admittance he's been engaged in things that which he shouldn't be.
He hurries up to his feet with dizzy speed. So fast the heel on his feet twists odd. He makes a face and pulls it off, throwing it behind him. He takes care of the other the same way, stalling for time where he'll have to face her. Cal is awoken from rest, rising to observe with curiosity. He swallows hard and rises up himself.
His eyes are still round, the light of candles throwing his face into shadows, hollowing his cheeks and putting darkness around his eyes. All too late, he raises a hand and shakes his head. It's nothing. It's fine.
He's a liar.
Re: B
"It's alright, Kurloz. It's okay. I won't tell."
Everyone has secrets, she wants to say, but then he might ask her secrets, want to see into her heart, and she remembers what she was told, what she forgets when he's near. She trusts him with her life but she's not sure she can trust him with her soul.
Regardless, she reaches out to him and takes the raised hand in her own. She holds him up inside of them and shakes her head.
"What are you doing?"
B
He does what is most natural for him to do. He puts on a wide false smile. In context of the situation it reads; Just a game. Just a silly night-time exercise. Nothing to be concerned with. Nothing worth query.
He even shakes his head and shrugs to add to the illusion. There's no telling if she'll buy it, and considers whether he would like to kiss her to throw her off trail, or if that would make him feel ill inside.
There's a chance she may not know what he was doing. Why fret when he doesn't know yet? He grips her hand a little.
B
"It's alright if you don't want to talk about it. I know it's not exactly--approved?" It's not the worst thing he could do, she thinks, but not the best. A little rebellion, harmless but still against the rules. Maybe he's not as deep as she was warned. Maybe this is something they could share.
"But really, it's okay. We all have secrets."
Just maybe, he won't ask for hers.
no subject
There's pen and paper there, conveniently so or otherwise.
READ AND BEHELD TALK OF THE HALLOWED. A SUBLIME AND HOLY PLAN FOR THE WORLD CRAFTED BY A BEING WITH WATCH OVER ALL, BUT IN PARTICULAR, THOSE THAT WOULD PLEDGE AND REVERE. THERE ARE GREATER THINGS AT WORK THAN THAT THE IMPIOUS WOULD PERCEIVE. WONDERS. MIRACLES. MOTHER FUCKIN SALVATION. PERHAPS YOU'VE KNOWN NO THING THAT SPOKE SO TRULY TO YOUR SOUL, BUT I STAND ON THE PRECIPICE OF REACHING THE DIVINE.
But. There was always a but. He leaves a space, writes the rest of his note and passes it back. His hand rests upon the shelf, fingertips tracing the spines of his books and the wood (the bones) of the shelf.
I HAVE FAILED ONLY TO KNOW WHOM THEY ARE AND HOW I MIGHT REACH THEM. I COME SO CLOSE, MY MAGE, TO MINE REDEMPTION. OUR EMANCIPATION FINAL. IF I MIGHT COGNIZE ONLY MORE, PERHAPS THEN. NO MORE WOULD THE WORLD'S SECRETS ELUDE ME. BUT I FEAR IT SACRILEGE ALL THE SAME, TO GIVE PLEA TO A BEING MORE.
He speaks dangerous and fantastical talk. He has no doubt she's heard nothing like it. Rightly so. She could be punished just to read what he's wrote.
no subject
She wonders if it hurts him to pray to a being whose name he does not know, if he worries the words would reach without a goal to strive toward. More importantly, she wonders why he would he fear it sacrilege when they both know the laws. He knows where it stands in the Capitol. Is it a little rebellion, a fight of what one believes in against what one was taught is right. It would seem so.
She carefully set the paper down and steps closed to his bookshelves. Her own hold novels and things, and whatever books she's borrowed from China at the moment. His seem to hold older things by far, older than them both, older than the games. She touches the spine of one curiously.
"It might be," she admits with gentleness in her voice, "But it doesn't mean you shouldn't try. Sometimes we find things that are important to us, that no one can take from us. Sometimes they might not approve of what you do."
And she slips, her words gain a passion that can't merely be about his religion. Her eyes fix on a point in space, her words are still low but fierce.
"But that's okay, because we know, each person, that what we do is right. It's good. It's important, to us, to others, I'm sure. Sometimes, it's hard but you have to do what you think is right."
no subject
But hers does raise his eyes. There's a faint alarm there, a hesitance and unease. With listening, he can tell she doesn't just refer to him. She looks off into an unknown future, becoming the prophet between the pair of them for once in their lives. She's moving. She could bring about great things with her will.
But he fears it. He fears it enough for it to show in his eyes.
It's hard but you have to do what you think is right. But what then when the right is wrong? It has been the case before. It has cost them both in spades. A good intention full up with a right motherfucking ill. There a things he did to her and Tuna what will never be undone. There are some sins that can't be cleaned.
His stare becomes the lightest of frowns, head tilting just a bit as he works her out for himself. There's something more here.
no subject
Without his reply, with his staring, her mind works overtime to find the right words to say. Only once does the thought of trusting him with her secret cross her mind. It's brushed away in the panic that he might realize what her words, her foolish inspired words, really meant.
"You should do what you think is right, Kurloz. Whether it's your prayers or following the letter and spirit of the law. Only you can decide what's right for yourself. What keeps you feeling like yourself. What keeps those you care about safe."
And what keeps hers safe is to never speak a word, to smile like she does now, understanding and sweet and trying so hard to erase her passion and determination from his mind. What keeps her and those she loves safe is to pretend she is nothing more than what she presents, nothing more than a gossip columnist, than a shipper, than a writer who adores romance. Just the girl he fell in love with.
no subject
But what was a self anyway? Was it not something he could craft? Could he not choose who he was? He knew, as he was, he wasn't worth much. Not on the Capitol's side of things and certainly not on the District's, the fact he has them as opposing side clear cut in his mind is a whole other worrying sign.
He could change that. With just a call to Caiaborus he could change a thousand things about himself, better than any surgery or makeover in the world, not an attempt for difference, but real and true change. It was why he was where he was now, instead of scraping the bottom of the latter. Obedience and servitude. If asking for the help of the law, seeking to correct it, was wrong, then that could only mean the right thing was changing themselves. Correction.
It is because of this correction that he realises there is only one choice at all. No more prayers. No more holy things. Faith is a senseless object. He must follow the letter and spirit of the law. He must do what is right. And so he must do whatever it is he can to keep those he cares about safe. No cost could be too high if it was the right thing to do. As his eyes rise up to meet those of the girl he fell in love with, all fear and feeling is expelled from his heart. What can he do but follow what's been etched into his bones?
He begins to smile at her. It's wide but soft at the same time. A warm smile. It's convincing enough for there to be no reason to examine the hollowness in his eyes. Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever.
His hands, both folded together, come up over his heart as he bows. I thank you, my mage. I understand now.
no subject
She swallows the fear. She wonders if she got through, if he understands, if he really listened to her and everything will be okay. If his faith will continue, this thing he so believes in. She hopes so. The god he prays to must will it so, right?
He bows and she feels such a weight in her gut that she thinks she might not sleep at all tonight. Perhaps she'll lay there staring at the ceiling, wishing she'd left him alone and in his room with his prayers. She'll wish he hadn't asked for her thoughts.
"I helped?" She asks softly as he lifts from the bow. Really, maybe, she helped.
no subject
He takes a step closer and reaches out for her hand. He lifts it in his, holding her fingers there that he may kiss her knuckles and the top of her hand. She shouldn't feel so unsure. She was a miracle. A gift.
He reaches up then to brush a bit a bit of hair behind her ear, gazing down fond. He's gone in a second, reaching back for his pen and paper and scrawling quick as he can whilst still keeping his script neat.
I DESIRE WE CONVENE POST-HASTE WITH A DEAR FRIEND OF MINE. I BELIEVE A WICKED MOTHER FUCKIN RENDEZVOUS AMONGST MY DEAREST FRIENDS WILL PROVE MOST FORTUITOUS. MY LOVE, SHOULD YOU MUSTER THE INCLINATION, MY GRATITUDE WOULD BE CONSIDERABLE.
no subject
It helps too much. If she was still anxious, if she wasn't so eager to believe the best, the very best, of her love, she might have realized. Might have seen the hollowness in his eyes and the promise in his words, the promise that echoes the vow of a month ago. Instead, she reads the request and tilts her head with curiosity. Not fear.
"Of course," she answers with a smile and a kiss done on tiptoe, pressed to his cheek, "Just let me know so I can pencil it in."
no subject
He chases her kiss all the way down, pressing upon her cheek this time. Then her lips. His long fingers trace the curve of her neck and up in the tangle of her hair. A ghosting of his lips over her neck and he's lifting back up again. A tease.
He nods slow to her. Of course, my love. He'll need to schedule it in with immediacy. Caiaborus can be a very busy man, and moreover, a temperamental one. Who knew what favors he'd call for. No matter. He'd fill all of them to see this through.
The right thing.
A
There's one in his hand now as he approaches Kurloz's door, an almost thoughtful scowl on his face, but it switches to surprise when Kurloz holds up the two options and asks his opinion.
Derek doesn't care, and he doesn't know anything about fashion - but he's here to ask Kurloz for tips, the least he can do is actually think what Kurloz is asking him. Not that he would have made the effort, usually, but Kurloz is a friend. So he frowns at the beads and the ribbon, looking up at Kurloz and back down at them before he points decisively at the beads.
Then, he holds up the book he's brought - a book on sex, written by some useless Capitolite who clearly knows even less than Derek does, in his opinion. "This is shit," he growls. "Could get better information from you."
A
He is not warded off by a scowl. He never has been, really.
The beads are chosen and he regards them thoughtfully, before nodding in agreement. Yes, these will be quite nice. The bow might clash. This time.
The book is lifted up before he can do anything further however and he blinks owlishly at it, then Derek. Naturally, he snorts, more breathy laughter following. He turns back inwards, allowing Derek in his room, all whilst gesturing out, palm up, to say, Well duh. Of course you could have. The beads and bow are placed down and he turns back to facing Derek. One hand on his hip and a smirk on his face.
no subject
The laughter doesn't bother him. He wouldn't have come to Kurloz about this if he thought the guy was going to laugh at the thought of Derek having sex, like so many other Capitolites have done. He's assuming it's more at the fact that he just shoved a sex book in his face, which is fair enough.
But Derek never claimed to be anything but blunt, and he follows after Kurloz into the room, nudging the door shut behind him.
He growls a little at that palm out, Yeah, yeah, I know, and drops the book carelessly on the nearest flat surface.
"Like learning about fighting," he says. "Books are only worth so much." And Derek knows just about everything about fighting, but this? He shrugs one shoulder, growling to himself. "Never really cared, got a lot of catching up to do."
It's not exactly an admittance, considering how often he'd growled about his disinterest in interviews that insisted on asking him about useless shit, but he still wouldn't be saying it if it wasn't to Kurloz.
no subject
Certain tips were not universal. He imagines there would be things he could've figured out without thinking and things Derek is just not interested in. But still, what advice he gives can't be worse than Capitol Sex Tips, with the classic "stick a donut on his dick and bite around it".
If this weren't Derek, if this were some Capitolite, he could easily take the request for advice in a whole other direction. The fun one, naturally, but this is Derek and even if Derek was a Capitolite proper he would still not be Meulin.
He nods in understanding, even if he's still got the slightest grin. He scoops up pen and paper to write:
WHAT GESTURES HAVE YOU AWARENESS TO ALREADY. I SHALL PROCEED THUS FROM THERE.
no subject
But he was like that long before, it cannot all be blamed on the Arena.
Still, it means that when he is there at their new little home, Chuck takes to walking it. Quietly, bare feet making a whisper of a sound. They've been here long enough that he's not necessarily paranoid over it, walking the edges of their home like an animal across the edge of it's territory. It's simply calming, and he uses the time to think, to plan, careful and thoughtful, certainly more so than most would assume him capable of. But Kurloz has known him for years, long before that crafted imagine. None of it can fool him.
And yet, even after all these long months, Chuck is perhaps still unused to living in so close quarters to so many. This is more manageable in some ways, and more difficult in others. But he still pauses when Kurloz rushes up to him, all gleaming eyes and gleaming stitches. Chuck's brow raises, even as he closes the little notebook he was carefully making notes in, tucking his pen behind his ear.
"You really trustin' my judgement here?" He teases, because they all know that he's definitely not the best. But still, he eyes both options thoughtfully, nose wrinkled as he does so, and then nods towards the ribbon.
no subject
Nevertheless, the bow is picked, and Kuroz delightedly tucks the beads away back in his room, going to stand before the mirror turning his head this way and that to see how the bow is going to go in. Yes, this will be very nice.
In a matter of seconds, he's back, bow forgotten even as it's held in his hands. He tilts his head at Chuck, looks down at the notebook, and the back up quickly. He bats his lashes a little for further dramatism, all just to say, What's in the book?
It's an odd hour to be making notes for mentorship. He doesn't really think it's about that at all. Perhaps Chuck has taken up poetry, a means to match the literacy fanatics of the house, which include him, Meulin, and Derek. Wouldn't that be charming.
C
Thus, she ends up on the doorstep to Kurloz's office.
Phi follows him willingly enough into the room, taking the offered seat with only a cursory look at it. His style seems pretty dark, but that doesn't necessarily mean he'll put her in something similar. He claims to be the stylist for this whole floor, so... She'll give him a shot. One shot.
"I need some advice," she starts, not waiting for him to ask her, given the fact that he doesn't speak. "I've been invited to dinner with a friend tomorrow night. He's making reservations at some place called Below Timberline. So far, I've only seen him wearing a mechanics outfit and a tricked out trench coat, so I thought I could ask someone with a bit more experience in not looking like an idiot." Honestly, she's not sure why she asked Sigma about a dress code in the first place.
no subject
He looks surprised she's made a friend already. She must have met someone from her particular iteration. Lucky girl. That could be so rare sometimes. And a "he" so that cut away many of the possible options.
A "he" with dreadful style. Could it be that Roland fellow? That cowboy couldn't understand fashion if it was written instructive on the brim of his ten gallon hat.His brow raises because he simply cannot go without knowing. He could miss out on very important gossip. And all gossip was of course, very important.
But to the point. He gestures out at her to say, go on. How might I be apt to mother fucking assist.
no subject
He gestures at her to continue, but she's not sure what more he's looking for. Does she need to explain what she's asking for?
"I need something to wear." That part seemed obvious enough. "Preferably something comfortable that matches the tone of the restaurant. I don't need to be dressed to the nines like everyone else. Not ending up on the tabloids for Worst Presentation in the Capitol would be good enough."
"If you want to coordinate something..." She shrugs her shoulders, a frown finally penetrating her neutral expression. "I don't know who to ask. Sigma isn't a Tribute, so who knows who keeps him from dressing like a tool."
no subject
He looks surprised at that, hand going up to cover his mouth as though anything could even come from it. Sigma. The Gamemaker. Well god damn.
That look of surprised becomes a sly grin and tilted head. Oh, he must know more about that. One does not simply become casual friends with a gamemaker. There is a story here and he is going to find it out. He shifts in his seat and leans forward, chin resting upon the tops of his folded hands. Do go on.
In the meantime, he'll need to find something. Something nice, though Phi rejects being overdressed. Something to frame her face, some nice big accents to give more emphasis to maturity, what with her small stature...
no subject
"He's just a friend from my world," she explains, talking down the whole thing with a shrug. "There's nothing more to tell. I showed up here, and he wanted to catch up."
no subject
She's got a fondness for soft grey-blues going into a teal color. For all her fairy-like appearance, there's a definite not of seriousness to her. He gets up, searching for something he's sure he had made recently or at least some months ago. Ah! The coat, there is is. He lays it down upon his design table, mulling it over.
Something soft then. He digs for that next. He grabs for jewellery and throws it atop with little minding. Somewhere, somewhere...
no subject
She's a little relieved when he does as she asks anyway. The coat is regarded with interest, enough that she reaches out to touch the fabric, rubbing it between her fingers. It's not bad at all. Definitely on the nicer side of the things that she'd owned in her life. If she was back on Earth, it would probably cost her more than the rest of her outfit combined.
"Do you just have this stuff lying around?" she asks, picking up and fiddling with a piece of jewelry next.
no subject
He goes back to his digging and finally pulls out the skirts he's looking for. He hurries back, lays everything out just the way he thinks it ought to go (eve if it means lifting a piece from her hands), then steps back. He appraises the clothing, then Phi.
The wicked ensemble is now complete, he thinks. He gives a thumbs up. She should be good to go with all of this.
no subject
He's good at this, she'll give him that. This is actually something that she would consider wearing, and he's only known her for less than a day. He's observant. She'll have to remember that.
"Okay, you win. Do I just take this stuff, or what?" She doesn't know how this is supposed to work. Is he expecting payment? Is this hers to keep? Or should she return it afterwards?
no subject
Once that message is across he stands straight and gives her a thumbs up. Blow his mind, sister Phi.
With that, he goes about putting away all that he's undone in his search for her. No payment needed; everyone knew it wasn't the Tributes who wrote the checks.