whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

[molotov]

Who| Molotov, Black Tom and open
What| A wedding reception for the ages
Where| A private estate
When| Between the D7 and D1 battles
Warnings/Notes| General assholery, excessive and gaudy displays of wealth, literal fountains of alcohol, two terrible people who genuinely love each other

The ceremony was small and private, as far as guests went -- you probably weren't invited. The Capitol even granted them a few moments without cameras or recorders for their vows. Tom and Molotov were married at dusk in a room of flowers, a room that's been made completely off-limits until the happy couple themselves are far from it. Once the party begins, it holds the dance floor, illuminated by thousands of tiny fairy lights that shine from inside the greenery, and even the floor is made of flowers, kept pristine and dance-friendly with a layer of plexiglass atop them.

Two bengal tigers in white flower crowns and neck wreaths are waiting to welcome you to the area designated for cocktails, and while the tigers lie mostly still on their perches placed at either side of the door, they do occasionally let out a growl or roar, just for show. The music is quieter here, to accommodate mingling, and while the bar does have practically every variety of beverage ever created, there's a sign to highlight the carefully crafted signature cocktails for the couple:

Permafrost
vodka, elderflower liqueur, white cranberry and lime juice, garnished with an orchid and edible gold flecks

The Barrington
whiskey, simple syrup, and lemon juice, garnished with a sprig of fresh mint and an emerald at the bottom of the glass

Killer Love
champagne, cognac, orange liqueur and a candied hibiscus blossom cradling a diamond

The massive dining area is indoors, though one could be forgiven for thinking they've walked outside -- a domed glass ceiling shows the sky above (which has been artificially enhanced through the glass to include gorgeous starry heavens). Trees and flowers seem to grow from the tables, glowing from the light of soft LEDs in glass orbs amongst the branches. Some of the bulbs contain butterflies instead, white and fluttering around, providing a bit of movement.

There doesn't seem to be a menu; instead, chefs man at least twenty different specialty stations, ready to make custom versions of everything from risotto to grilled cheese, pizza to lobsters. There's an entire table devoted to caviar, another just for varieties of bread and butter. One chef is happy to prepare you a hearty stack of waffles, should you wish.

Though there is one cake that is, obviously and undoubtedly, the main cake, there are several dozen other, smaller ones dotting tables around the room, each with a different look, flavor and decoration.

Towards the end of the party, well after midnight, guests are ushered outside for the send-off. As Tom and Molotov exit, fifty thousand white and gold balloons are released into the sky above them, and guests are urged to wave their sparklers for good luck and congratulations. They leave in a sleek black coupe, complete with custom plates that read CASSIDY.

The music keeps playing until dawn.

Comments

[molotov]

On the other hand, Molotov wants nothing more than for this to be over so she can go home, though she's hiding it well enough, with smiles and handshakes and polite little air kisses. It's just so many people, the vast majority of whom she doesn't even know, and in the end, she married Tom because she wanted to be with him, not with these bizarre strangers at an obligatory party.

But she wants him to be happy, to soak up whatever it is he gets out of these affairs, the same way she did at the Crowning, where she either clung to him or sat alone, waiting for the end.

It's been days since Molotov slept without an aid, a pill downed with the last gulp of the night's wine. That keeps her solidly asleep for longer than she would ever normally sleep, but it's preferable to lying awake with anxiety and fear and the need for control that she can't seem to regain. Tom at her side keeps her paranoia of night attacks at bay when she falls into a sleep that's practically comatose.

She's not afraid of getting tired of him, she's afraid of being tied down, but how can she defeat that fear other than to face it and prove to herself that it's not the worst thing that could happen? She always has the back-up plan of killing him to free herself, if it's too much.

Molotov is three drinks deep by the time Tom circles back to her, two of her eponymous drink and one of their shared one, the diamond flicked away onto the floor because it's not big enough for her to care about. It's certainly helping, although this is yet another occasion that she's just getting drunk without eating, because her Capitolite stylists and assistants have basically stopped her from consuming anything with more calories than a mint for two days, citing the wedding photos as the reason she should forgo any kind of sustenance. She'd gone along with it because she was too tired and annoyed to fight.

The strings of pearls bounce gently on her shoulder blades as she turns toward him. Her smile is genuine, for once, and she waits for him to re-secure the flower in her hair before she reaches for his hand. "Maybe that cheesecake one, a little bit," she says, running her fingers over the lapel of his jacket. "Why, any particular one you wanted me to try?"

[pimpcanes]

Tom leans his head back for a moment to get a better view of how the flower looks refastened, then decides it appeases his discerning eye and leans in to give her a kiss. All in all, their ceremony kiss was almost mundane, given the way they know each others' mouths by now. They've shared a thousand kisses, tender and passionate and lusty and even the quick afterthoughts before hopping in the showers in the morning. There are no more special kisses to give, just categories to which the experience can only deepen.

"The devil's food one is about as rich as we are." It's shaped like a couture castle, too, because of course it is.

He's been drinking too, naturally. It's a wedding between an Irishman and a Russian; to say the alcohol is flowing freely would be a slanderous understatement. It's brought a little bit of rosiness to his cheeks beneath the makeup that his style team insisted he wore, to make him look a little younger, much to his chagrin.

"You should eat something." He gets fussy over her sometimes. It's that paternal streak, maybe, or the softer side of how territorial he gets about her (really, it's a miracle he hasn't had Ford killed and shoved down someone's chimney, a testament to how much he knows it would upset Molotov).

[molotov]

She touches his face when he kisses her, and doesn't move her hand when he leans back again. Her fingers spread on his cheek, her rings glinting in the low light, like she doesn't want to let go or fears he might disappear if she stops touching him. Like she's going to wake back up in LA any moment and find out it was all a bizarre dream.

"Too heavy," she murmurs, taking another sip of her drink as she shakes her head a little, "and I'm not that hungry anyway." It's a lie and the truth at the same time -- her body feels like it's beginning to eat itself, and yet she has no real appetite, doesn't feel like she can eat again until this is all over. She's approached this wedding the way she approaches high profile assassination jobs, with meticulous planning and the kind of intense attention to detail that kills everything in her except her focus.

There's an irony, that she objects to his fussing when she does the same thing to him about his leg, but her single-mindedness turns them into different subjects entirely. He's all about smothering and control, with the best of intentions behind it, and her attention is about fixing a part of herself that needs it.

Because he's part of her now, rain into her ocean that cycles back to his clouds.

She rubs a little at the makeup in the crinkle of his eye, the crow's feet that Capitolites are always working so hard to cover for reasons that she can't fathom. It's a few shades darker than her finger, the concealer that comes off.

"We'll take cake home. I'll eat later."

[pimpcanes]

"Then the lemon cake? It's light as a feather. We may as well have ordered a mousse of it instead." He won't be sated until he sees her nibble at something, but he might be distracted - there are so many people to chat up and gloat at, after all. He has to let everyone know he's the man with the most beautiful wife in the building, and approaches the task with the shameless intent of a dog peeing on fenceposts.

But he'll worry over her again tonight, might make some comment about it when they fall into bed together, wrapped around each other like vipers around a healing staff. Whisper in her ear to keep herself strong because of the hurricane that surrounds this city.

"Fine, but I insist you try at least a bite of the devil's food."

He reaches over and wipes the foundation off her finger, rolling his eyes. "They way they past me up, you'd think I'm bound for the crypt. People here don't respect honest wrinkles. They don't let them show until they're on their deathbed."

[molotov]

"I'll find something, don't worry." She says it like a teenager might, with a minor amount of exasperation. "Stop fussing, I'm fine, Thomas." She kisses his cheek before setting aside her drink to loop her arms around his waist. "Besides, I want you, not food. You've gotten so distracted with the guests that you forgot about me."

In the dim light around the bar, it's almost like they actually have a space for themselves, time that they haven't had since they woke up together this morning. Molotov hates that, when they're separated by anything other than choice.

She nuzzles the line of his jaw, sighing. "That must make Snow centuries old, then. But you, you're perfect, you don't need any of this shit they push on you, makeup and hair dye and whatever else." Smiling a little, she sneaks one hand down a bit, to squeeze his ass. "Did you see the inside of your ring, what I had them engrave?"

Molotov has no clue whether the David Bowie in his world is like the one (two... kind of) in hers, but that didn't stop her from having his ring engraved with only slightly modified lyrics -- You, you will be king, and I, I will be queen. - Mrs. Cassidy.

[pimpcanes]

"I haven't forgotten about you," he huffs, all but whines. "We had the ceremony itself in seclusion, like you wanted. Let me lord my good fortune over people just a bit."

It may end up being the one fissure between them, her need for privacy and his almost compulsive exhibitionism. It isn't one they can't move past, but their many similarities mean that the edge of the wound will crimp and redden; they're both petty, both unforgiving, both loath to apologize and even moreso to mean it.

But at the moment, that's all forgotten, washed out in the light of love and adoration. He looks at the inside of the ring, lips quirking upwards with delight and vanity both.

"I haven't heard that song in a decade," he says, smiling to himself and then humming the refrain. "But do we really want to be heroes, my dear?"

[molotov]

"You've been lording it over them since we got engaged. Didn't you get enough giggles out of arresting everyone you hate?" she murmurs, kneading her fingers into the small of his back. "I don't think it's too much to expect your attention during my own wedding reception."

She doesn't mind his need for the spotlight, not so long as he keeps it away from her when she doesn't want it, and as long as it doesn't compete with her for his heart. That's where the disconnect is, when they can't agree on the limits. It's something they probably need to talk about. Several times, because communication is bound to break down into screaming a few times before they get it together.

"Maybe just for one day," she teases. "Besides, I think we're heroes here whether we want to be or not. A rather big change of pace, but I like to think we've adapted well. But I can call you Major Tom, if you like that better."

[pimpcanes]

"Hardly. Quintus gave me a slap on the wrist and gave me a scolding for being overbearing and abusing my authority." Tom couldn't lace his words with more disdain if he tried. It's clear he thinks that he should have been allowed to outright execute people for failing to RSVP.

"Champions, maybe. For the Capitol. I don't know that we'll ever be heroes," he says, leaning in to rest his head next to hers, to smell the voluminous hairspray they've given her for this event. "Except for heroes to each other."

[molotov]

She laughs at him, much as she had when she'd found out what he was doing to get his name in the news for prolific arrests. She'd framed it as him working overtime and investigating the most questionable names in Panem for their likely treason. For the most part, Molotov finds his antics amusing and fun, only ever interferes when they're plans about her or something larger, something that needs her hand to guide him.

Molotov settles her head against his, sighs and moves her hand to trace his collar, to loosen the bowtie. "Wasn't that what the song was about?" she quips, her fingertips sliding to his neck, running over his adam's apple.

"I might still get you a space helmet. I'll be ground control."

[pimpcanes]

"Was it? I haven't heard it in years. You should ask them to play it now."

As much as Tom could benefit from her good judgment, he's glad she mostly stays out of it. His ego is large but puffed up, brittle on the inside, and he gets defensive when his master plans are criticized. She knows how to just let him muck around in this city-sized sandbox until it's something where the criticism would cause more good than wounded pride.

"Space, my love? What makes you think I'd want to go back to space after that terrible Arena?"

[molotov]

"They don't know who he is. I've already found that out. They don't know any of the musicians I know." They don't know painters, music artists, actors -- it's like whole centuries never happened for them, or were so wiped out of existence that not even memories remained to be written up. It's bizarre.

She has no interest in interfering with his plans, generally, not unless they affect her and she needs to put a kibosh on his shit, and that doesn't happen very often. She loves him too much, and she also doesn't care about anyone else, so it's pretty easy to ignore his dumb shit.

"You'll want to go to the space I have for you," she murmurs, tugging him closer to her, smiling wickedly. "I've heard you'll see stars."

[pimpcanes]

"A shame." It doesn't really perturb Tom, though. He's been to a few alternate dimensions, heard tell of far more, including places where history and culture seem to have progressed at remarkably the same clip regardless of who was there as the steward. It's enough to make someone believe that art is immutable, and that the people behind it are anonymous and interchangeable. "I'd say they know Rome but I asked one of them once and got the most goggle-eyed expression I've seen yet."

He lets himself get pulled in, meeting her smile with one of his own.

"Is that so? Maybe I will have to exit this reception early then, lass."

[molotov]

Molotov likes David Bowie, okay? He's good people, it's a tragedy for him to be unknown and not in possession of a panda.

"Ah, I was told that the Romans were the last great civilization, and that Panem is following in their colossal footsteps. They don't seem to know how Rome fell, either, and they don't want to know about it." She's pretty sure that their knowledge of Rome also makes no sense, given that the same person told her that humanity was 500 years old and that Panem is the only nation. Who was Rome????

She cranes her neck that small bit, bites his bottom lip gently, and loosens his bowtie. "I'm sure we can find a closet somewhere."

[pimpcanes]

"Oh, you met a Capitolite who read a book, once. Or maybe watched a program that wasn't the Hunger Games or Fashion Police." Sometimes it just blows his mind how Capitolites are educated. They're awash in propaganda, forced to memorize and not question. It's like his Catholic school education turned to cartoonish degrees. He's amazed that some of them know how to string sentences together.

"A closet at our own wedding reception?" He asks, clearly not shooting the idea down in any way. "We are in Panem. We could probably get away with doing it on the same table as the cakes."

[molotov]

Molotov was educated by the Soviet military, and she knows she was taught some questionable things, but it's astounding that the Capitolites can't even seem to spot the inconsistencies when they spout them back-to-back. "Don't get crazy, we want them to waste all their brain cells on trash television." She smiles. "We make a lot of money on that inclination of theirs."

With a laugh, she undoes the top button of his shirt, then takes hold of either side of his loose bowtie and grins lasciviously. "Probably, but I can think of at least three places I don't want cake lodged. Anyway, I don't want any of these bitches looking at you. You know how jealous I get."

[pimpcanes]

"True." Tom sucks in a breath through as his teeth as he lets her pull away his formality, any stiffness around his demeanor. "Watching trash television and not thinking there's anything shameful in being too drunk to string an argument together. Did you see my whiskey sales are up fourteen percent since the marriage announcement? Not that that's why I'm wedding you..."

He leans forward and kisses her. If anyone says anything, they can be damned. It's his damn wedding reception. "Are you sure they wouldn't be looking at you?"

[molotov]

"And my lingerie's up by twenty-four percent," she counters, proud of both of them. "Everything that comes in white or ivory is completely sold out. The souvenir garters were gone in two days." Molotov has specifically stayed away from anything that's too much like her, eyepatches and red gloves, things like that, but she wouldn't be surprised if someone told her there's now a shortage on red wigs.

It's all she can assume with the way her panties are selling.

She bites at his lip when he pulls away, doesn't let go until she has to. "That doesn't make me jealous."

[pimpcanes]

"Were those the ones you signed? My signature boosted my bottles by four times the retail price. Given that I wasn't even the one writing them, my company's made quite a boon on our nuptials."

He savors the sting of her teeth on his lower lip, not even bothering to be subtle as he leers at her. "We could sneak away. We wouldn't have to put a stop to everything."

But honestly, at this point, he'd be okay with grinding the reception to a halt.

[molotov]

"Mm-hm." Molotov actually had signed the garters, taken an afternoon to sign around three hundred. For her vodka, she wouldn't have made the effort, but she genuinely likes her lingerie line, jumped on the opportunity to have another thing she could control. Everything else she endorses, she's mostly a face, but the Molotov collection is hers.

Like a very lacy baby.

"Let them have their party," she smirks, hooking her fingertips in his waistband and pressing her hips to his. "I don't care if they stay here for another three days. You and I will go find a spare room, I can actually get this dress over my hips without popping seams on it."

[pimpcanes]

Tom has some poor Avox mimicking his handwriting. There may be a blow to the image of authenticity his liquor company tries to put out there if it's ever found out, but really, "authenticity" tends to not be high on the list of desirable attributes Capitolites look for in their dietary experiences. "District authenticity" is basically slang here for boiled cabbage and food poisoning.

Of course, he has nowhere near the investment in it that Molotov has in her lingerie line, and he's loath to admit it but it shows in the quality of the product. Molotov's got compensated garters from every part of the collection, and Tom has some very good memories associated with them now.

Maybe they ought to make some more.

He leans in and whispers it to her ear, eyeing the room for a hallway that might have a room they could take over. "I would be happy to help undress you, just in case."

[molotov]

"Oh, we'll have plenty of time for that later." She turns her head to murmur against his neck, and at the rate she's going, it's a wonder she hasn't just thrust her hand down his pants and dragged him somewhere. When she looks up, she can see people milling around them, politely giving them space even as they place their drink orders.

She's disheveling his shirt and she knows it, but she rakes her nails up to his navel just the same. "Besides, there's not much to take off. I don't have on anything under this dress."

[pimpcanes]

"I should hope so. We haven't even settled on a location for the honeymoon yet, but I did manage quite a nice piece of time off." Mostly because Tom's job with the Peacekeepers is, aside from when they send him out into combat where he invariably dies, a bit of a joke. It's mostly him flaunting power and watching security footage and bitching about how the refrigerator made the texture on his caviar weird.

"Good for us. Less I'm apt to accidentally damage when I tear it off you." He takes her hand and starts to lead her down the hallway.

[molotov]

"I told you, I want to go to the beach." She bites a little at his neck, as if to chide him for not listening to her and giving her exactly what she wants to begin with. But time off was hardly something she needed to think about now -- not with PNN's cancellation. She hasn't had much to do except work on the wedding and sign garters.

She follows him with glee, trotting after him like an excited puppy.

[pimpcanes]

"But which beach?" Tom says, teasing, laughing, already feeling the blood pool between his legs at the lusty idea of Molotov in a bikini and shining with sunscreen. Maybe they'll just have to have some sort of force-field put up to protect them from the UV rays - God knows they'll both fry like leaves in a fire in the sun.

He brings her to a ballroom that's largely being used by Avoxes to bring out new attractions, bottles of alcohol and caged animals and bouquets of flowers, to replace the ones that are consumed or that wilt or tire in the main room. He could wait for them to make it presentable.

But right now, Tom doesn't care to wait for them to clean up.

"Get out," he commands them all.

[molotov]

"The most private one in this goddamn country! Who knows the next time we'll be around enough sand to fuck in?" She does also enjoy sunning herself topless and under a layer of SPF 60, because her only options for coloring are bone white and as red as her hair.

She watches the Avoxes scurry past them and out, and she snaps at the last one to stand guard outside the room, no one allowed in. When the door lock clicks, she hoists herself up onto a table, where she sits surrounded by floral arrangements, and shrugs completely out of the top of her dress, lets it pool at her waist. The pearls and crystals on the back hit the table with tiny thuds like raindrops.