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

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

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.

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Molotov can't even remember the last moment of peace she had, a moment that wasn't filled entirely with noise and activity. There was the first battle, dealing with Tom's death and resurrection, the second battle, and of course, the never-ending buying and planning that went hand in hand with a wedding, apparently. Alterations for two different dresses, arguments with hair and makeup artists determined to turn her into a freakish display of Capitolite opulence instead of listening to Molotov herself.

But, in that quiet few minutes before the violins start and Arya (the only other person in the wedding party) is sent down the aisle first, Molotov breathes. Closes her eye. Readjusts her grip on her bouquet. Reminds herself that it's all done after this.

And then she walks through the doors.

The guests arrive while formal portraits are being taken, with Molotov still in her ceremony dress, its majestic train fanned out over the front steps while guests are shooed toward a different entrance so they can't gawk, can only catch a glimpse. Pictures with Tom, with Arya, with the select group asked to attend the actual ceremony -- the pictures that will be released (sold) to the press, along with a handful of candids from the reception that Molotov has specified she'll pick out.

It takes four Avoxes trailing her to keep the dress intact and clean as she heads to change for the reception, out of necessity as much as vanity; the first dress is so delicate and long in the back that she wouldn't actually be able to interact with guests if she didn't switch. When "Mr. and Mrs. Cassidy" are announced, she has a red gloriosa tucked behind her ear, with the rest of her hair refreshingly free of the usual Capitol ornateness that takes hours out of her days and, she's pretty sure, years off her life.

She waves and smiles in response to the applause, holds tightly to Tom's hand, and then makes for the bar at the soonest opportunity.

Edited 2016-01-05 04:48 (UTC)

It's everything Tom wanted in one heady rush of satisfaction; him and his bride, the center of attention, atop a throne of luxury, untouchable and, in Tom's quite-humble opinion, unbeatable - proof positive that selling your morals to the highest bidder wins you earthly pleasures and the girl, that anyone who ever made him doubt himself for his avarice or ruthlessness is a fool who deserves to be among those looked down upon.

To hell with anyone who ever insisted on virtue. Clearly, they finish last. It's not just love that fills Tom with this rush of pleasure; it's the sense of having won on some intangible scale.

Despite the fact that all this standing has his leg in fits of cramping, he's quite the social butterfly at the reception. This is his part of the joint venture, of course, because he has a flare for the melodrama and the spotlight. Molotov prefers her privacy, but you don't decide yourself a supervillain and run around in purple spandex because you're camera-shy. He makes his rounds with photographers and then to just about everyone who attended, whether they're here for pleasure or out of obligation or boredom or whatever else might have forced them to the wedding reception of a couple who's largely hated by anyone with rebellious tendencies.

"Enjoying the wine? Aged a hundred years, although it still doesn't pack the kick of something with a proper proof. That's why I'm drinking whiskey" he'll say while petting one of the tigers (they have gilded gold fangs, a procedure Tom had to assure Molotov was perfectly humane). Or he'll say "have you tried the maple syrup candy? I hear it's from the only part of District Seven you can still visit without a gas mask."

Edited 2016-01-05 05:22 (UTC)

Wesker didn't pretend that Tom invited him for any other reason than why he attended - because it was expected for two men of their position and stature. There was no other practical reason why he would receive an invitation such a gilded and... flowered affair. Especially given his current ill-mood. Still smarting after the sudden return, and just as sudden loss of his abilities.

Still, he wasn't expected to attend the ceremony, so he had only to suffer through the reception, his nose itching at the heavy, cloying scents of so many co-mingling flowers, all competing with one other. And at least the lighting in the dining room was low.

He could even remove his sunglasses while he rubbed the bridge of his nose; slited eyes narrowing as he cursed the couple for their literal themeing.

Aunamee fits in well amongst the elegant. He glides from crowd to crowd with a smile on his face and stories on his lips. He offers compliments with each of his handshakes. Your face, oh, it's so beautiful. Your hands are so nimble -- are you a musician? An artist? Your jacket is magnificent. Your voice sounds so sweet.

Aunamee hasn't moved with a confidence like this in months (years?). As Panem crumbles into chaos, Aunamee starts to grow, strapping the debris around his ankles like grotesque stilts.

"I am enjoying the wine, dear Victor," he says when he finally finds Tom, still smiling from ear to ear. He hasn't been in the Capitol very long -- only three days -- but he's done his research.

He swirls the wine once before taking a sip, never one dropping his eyes.

"Congratulations."

Tom flits around for a while, absorbing all the attention like a particularly chatty sponge. It's clear that he's energized by it, that he feels some sense of correctness and balance with the universe when he's got all eyes on him and plenty of power and luxury to toss around. All of the insecurities and foibles he feels about his place in the cosmos have been extinguished. Any doubts he had about the marriage, fleeting and few though they were, have been entirely extinguished now.

He was concerned, lying in bed last night, about the permanency of it all. It's been a while since he's stayed in one place, a decade at least; he's driven to flights of fancy and boredom, to moving on to the next interesting thing when he's used up whatever value he got from where he's at. It's what drove him into crime in the first place, what started him gambling and thieving when he was an otherwise successful Oxford student.

He wondered if he could get bored of Molotov. When he sees her in the wedding dress, and later at the reception, he knows he never will.

"Are you going to have any of the cake, my dear?" He reaches for her and adjusts the gloriosa behind her ear.

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?"

For a moment, Tom doesn't place Aunamee's face. It's not unusual for him to be recognized and lauded for his victory - after all, bashing a ten year-old girl's head in with a mace makes for fantastic television. He's about to smile, offer some pat comment to make sure he's a good host, and then move on to the next compliment when Aunamee's identity snaps into focus.

So Tom stays, because Aunamee's the most interesting thing around, aside from himself and Molotov, of course.

"Ah, you're a sight. I almost wish you'd been in an Arena with me, so I could have crushed some actual competition." He runs his hand over the tiger's soft ear. The creature bares its fangs, but it's tame. It's never known anything but the Capitol.

Neither Aunamee nor Tom are like that. Tom reaches his hand out to shake Aunamee's.

"I'm honored by your presence here, lad."

Wesker can curse Tom for the theme, as Molotov's suggestion of just not doing this part was repeatedly rejected. Tom wanted this party, wanted to spend as much money as he possibly could, wanted to preen and peacock and feel superior to as many people as could be gathered in one location. It's his nature, she supposes.

But her nature is that of a mercenary, preferring the shadows and planning and minute details that lead to effortlessly executed missions -- she can cross an active motion detector field in three minutes, fire a single shot into a man's forehead from a mile away, recreate every single one of her contemporaries' explosives signature from memory just to throw blame in the other direction. So it makes sense that, while Tom shouted out ideas and grand visions, Molotov followed behind to fill in the blanks and perfect the plan.

Albert Wesker's name on the guest list was just one more element to account for.

The Avoxes precede Molotov as if to announce her, one with a bottle of red wine and a glass, the other with a dish under a golden cover. They place their items on the table in front of him, the plate revealed to be holding what appears to be a cut of steak, cooked extremely rare. But of course, Wesker should be able to tell the difference between beef and what's been brought in for him, what was alive only an hour ago.

"Imported from Seven," Molotov says smoothly as she approaches, carrying a glass of her own, gold flakes glittering like snow in a snow globe. Her hair is coppery in the low light, pearls and crystals gently swaying against her bare back with each of her steps. "Especially for you. I didn't figure you'd need a full chef's station. The, ah, delivery men weren't even finished with it until after the ceremony, they had me worried. I hate when things don't go according to plan."

In another time, with another person, Aunamee would take Tom's words as an insult. Losing -- even hypothetically losing -- is something he's never been able to handle. Even as a child, he would trip his friends in races and press his palms against his ears so that he wouldn't hear the other kids jeer.

But everything is different now. Tom, after all, is an ally in a world filled with enemies. Aunamee doesn't hear the word 'crushed.' He hears 'competition.'

He takes Tom's hand and gives it a firm shake, all the while watching the other man with curious eyes. He looks for little creases in his brow, for tugs in his smile. He studies the man's face with a mild mania reserved for people he knows will be worth something someday.

"Tell me how it felt when you won."

He can't stop himself. He wants to feel the skull crack under his own weight. It's been too long. Too dark.

"Tell me, does it compare to today?"

It was an unexpected offer; one that had his pupils slitting specifically on Molotov as the scent of the meat tightened the muscles of his throat. (Real and raw, nothing like the mysterious substitute the Capitol provided. The virus hummed in his veins, hungry.) He'd known Molotov was a clever, dangerous woman, but to see just what she was capable, dripping before him....

He hadn't given her enough credit.

"I would think they would know better, than to deny the bride on her wedding day," he replied with a small lean, toward the table, inhaling the scent deeply.

(Especially this bride.)

"My congratulations, and - my gratitude."

It's true that the Capitol tends to indulge Molotov, citing her service and the importance of her loyalty; in other words, the Capitol's higher-ups are very clear on the fact that her allegiance has to be bought, and it's cheaper to buy her than fight her. If she wants flesh from a torture victim, it's worth it just to keep her happy, and after all, it would have just been wasted anyway.

She smiles, and in that look is some of whatever it is that makes the Capitol cater to her, that keeps Tom obsessed with her. That exudes confident danger and the fact that she can destroy you before you can blink. That whether or not she does, you're subject to her whims.

"Thank you, and you're welcome." She takes a seat across from him, apparently not bothered at all by the idea of a cannibal dining in front of her. She crosses her legs, ivory silk clinging to her thighs and hips, then takes a sip of her drink before placing her hand on the table.

"I want to thank you. Not just for coming, but for being as... patient as you are with Thomas and his quirks." She's not stupid or oblivious, she knows that her husband is a pompous ass at his best. She knows that he takes all sorts of liberties with his position, that he can be damn near intolerable for those with a low tolerance. And she has no doubt that, if he so desired, Wesker is capable of making their lives extremely annoying. "You and the other Peacekeepers have my greatest appreciation for it."

If this were anyone else's wedding, Ford would either have skipped out and not bothered attending, or been blackout drunk before the ceremony even ended out of sheer boredom. But this is Molotov's wedding, and that woman has him so pussy-whipped that he's actually on his best behavior for once. He only has one flask hidden in his suit pocket and he only took a couple of nips out of it during the ceremony, to brace himself (aka keep himself from tearing up. He loves a wedding, alright?)

Now, the reception is in full swing, and he spots the blushing bride at the bar, so of course he has to sidle up and sling his arm around her. "Beau'iful fuckin' party, darlin'. One of them tigers damn near bit my ear off, guess 'e didn' want to cuddle," he jokes. He's got a Barrington in hand--he's had three already, with three emeralds wrapped in a napkin in his pocket. They make for a good pick-up line, alright?

Molotov could care less if people drank during her wedding -- hell, she would have been content to exchange vows in the courthouse. But Tom insisted on the wedding, and if they were going to do it, then she wanted to do the important part right.

But this part, this was all Tom, if the overkill isn't indication enough. And, as always, Molotov isn't enthused to be at a huge party full of weird Capitolites, and she's drinking her way through it, tossing back cocktails like shots. She's going to be totally trashed in an hour at the rate she's going, but she figures it doesn't matter. Most people here are too absorbed in themselves to even notice.

Ford is one of the few who might, even as she fakes her way past everyone else. "I'm happy with how it turned out," she says, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Everything just like I wanted. Like Tom wanted. You really think it's good?"

The female of the species...

Wesker had never put much stock in the old poem, but watching Molotov, feeling the familiarity of that smile (too white, too sharp), he decided firmly that it applied in this case. Of the pair of them, he would need to watch Molotov far more carefully than Tom.

The man could be a problem, if crossed, but she might actually be a challenge.

"For his - proclivities, Thomas isn't the worst associate I've ever had." Better than many, actually, but he didn't offer that. He reached easily for the gleaming silverware, and turned the bloodied plate around. "I can trust him alone with the sharp instruments."

Out of all the events that the Capitol had lined up and making itself look like the grandiose fortress that it pretends to be, this had to be one of the more opulent of the sort.

As a businessman and consummate workaholic, Sinclair didn't much care for the flowers and hullabalooo that comes with weddings but they were social events and, at Nina's urging, he had to get out of the office. Poor girl was running herself ragged making sure that the war didn't mess with her boss's schedule but even Gus could see why she hesitated to RSVP him here. It's a celebration of a Capitolite marriage, the sort that at the age of 38 should've been in about five years ago.

Eh, free drinks and Miss Carnegie was sent home to be with her family during these trying times. Meanwhile, Augustus took the chance to study the crowd, watching them attempt to revel in the flowers and the events themselves. He's enjoying the Barrington cocktail though the emerald is set aside for souvenir and to entertain himself with the properties the small stone had.

Ford doesn't bat an eye to see Molotov tossing back her drinks like that. First time he ever laid eyes on her she was upside down on a throne and wasted. It only follows that she'd be downing them like this on her wedding day, too. He grins down at her where she's leaned her head into his shoulder, and damn if her hair doesn't smell like a bed of roses.

"Yeah, Molotov. Really classy do," he confirms. "'Ow's it feel, then? Bein' Mrs. Black Tom." He's joking. He knows Tom's last name. But he's also a huge prick at every opportunity and that usually wins out.

His presence does, at least, make her slow down a bit, which is probably for the best. At the Crowning, she'd only gotten "upside down on a throne" wasted around the end of the party, and also it wasn't her wedding. But being drunk is her god-given right as a Russian, and she plans to take advantage of that.

Ford smells like cologne and it's a nice change from the endless scent of a million different flowers, which Molotov has been surrounded by for a substantially longer time than anyone else here. "Doesn't feel much different," she says, shrugging, and it's true that Molotov and Tom have been married in all but name for the better part of the last year. "It's nice, I guess? This was never as important to me as it was to him and to everyone else. I was surprised he even asked, since I never thought much about it. Anyway, if anything, he's Mr. Molotov, everyone knows that."

No one's asked him.

He's surprised when he realizes. In a culture that so lionizes violence, conquest as its entertainment, no one's asked him what it felt like at the moment he won. They've asked what it meant to win in general, but not about that personal revelation in the instant he beat Wednesday Addams' brains into the ground.

Because he's just a pawn to them, he knows, and his leg aches and he leans a bit on his cane to remember it. They only care about what's inside when it manifests outwardly in a way their cameras can record.

His handshake on Aunamee's is firm, friendly, but there's a glassy distance to his eyes as he recalls that moment. It's not glorious daydreaming, but not altogether unlike a follower looking upon a holy relic. He felt a certainty in who he was in that moment, a finality, a closure. He had crossed a precipice and was in a freefall that would never end. Morality was a sham, still is. There is nothing but desire and satisfaction after that point.

Wednesday hadn't even screamed. The cannon went off while her eye that hadn't been turned to red pulp still had that laser-focused light in it, but Tom didn't realize what it was instantly because he still was looking at the shattered tooth he'd knocked into the grass and trying, in a detached way, to place what it was.

"It felt like a puzzle piece falling back into place." He smiles and places his free hand into his pocket. "This feels like the beginning of something wonderful. That felt like the ending of unexplored possibilities I didn't really want anyway."

Ford chuckles, bobbing his head and motioning to the bartender for another round. "That's damn right," he agrees. "I'm sure he knows just as well, too." Even Ford, rightful kind of macho, self-righteous bullshit, couldn't fathom trying to put Molotov in the role of timid housewife. She's the one running the show and she doesn't even need to crack the whip, not really.

With one large hand, he gestures up and down Molotov's reception dress. "You look stunnin' by the way. Meant to tell you earlier. Like a fuckin' angel." For once, there's no undertone or ulterior motive. He just wants to let her know that she looks good, that's all.

"He does. I should have put it in the vows, but I thought it was one of those things I don't really need to spell out." She watches her husband fake laugh at some Capitolite's joke, then sighs and grabs his hand as he waves it -- it's making her start to see double and she's not a fan of that.

His compliment makes her snort a laugh, and she holds his fingers with her long, thin ones. "Thank you," she murmurs, still watching Tom. "I like this tuxedo on you, it fits well. Did you bring someone? I didn't even look when I came down the aisle. I was too busy worrying about the train on that other dress."

Molotov has always been more dangerous than Tom, more dangerous than any supervillain, because she doesn't telegraph her true intentions. She doesn't give monologues and she doesn't have grand, detailed plans -- she's just morally ambiguous, quick to attack, and completely willing to switch sides with no warning.

'Evil' people are easy. Molotov is never easy.

"What a flatterer," she jokes, smirking as she takes a sip from her drink. "Keep up that sweet talk and he'll leave me for you. But I am glad that, at the very least, he has a peer within the Peacekeepers. Your presence... keeps him in check. Somewhat."

Aunamee enjoys it, that look a person has when they're searching inside themselves. He wishes he could be there with Tom, paging through his memories like a book filled with perfectly pressed flowers. He wants to reach out and touch every page, wants to feel the give of it under his fingers.

But he can't be there. Not now. Instead, he waits, his fingers dancing at his sides as though he were manipulating an invisible marionette.

"A puzzle piece," he echoes with a smile, his fingers slowing as a warm glow settles in his chest. "I know precisely what you're talking about." He turns to look at the room around them, pursing his lips in admiration of the scenery. "And what a wonderful beginning it is. You two are at the height of class. The Capitol must be jealous."

There's something dark about the way he says that. We're so much better than them, is what he's really saying. He catches Tom's eye and smiles.

"When's the honeymoon?"

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).

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."

"Does it?" He raised a pale eyebrow. How interesting. "I'm pleased I can be of service."

He sliced into the steak, and blood ran onto the gleaming china, the flowered pattern drowning in red. Wesker cut himself a neat cube, and dabbed it lightly into the puddle before bringing it to his lips.

The effect was immediate.

The Capitol's substitute kept the worst of his hunger in check, kept the virus brimming just under the threshold of control, but this... He felt it like a cooling balm, sliding down his throat.

His eyelids fluttered slightly. His nostrils flared.

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

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