Suffering from a Case of Sobriety [Closed]

[pimpcanes]

WHO| Black Tom and Molotov
WHAT| The power couple reunites in a field of flowers or some saccharine nonsense.
WHEN| Week 1
WHERE| The Meadows
WARNINGS| None. Just terrible people being terrible.

The anger Tom feels at this Arena doesn't burn itself out; instead, the coals keep simmering for days and days afterwards. After having his powers in an Arena where they were worse than useless, he's neutered in a damn forest. He imagines the Gamemakers purposefully conspiring to make his life difficult, and only comforts himself with the thought that if they didn't manufacture problems for him and Molotov, the Games would be over by now. That, he decides, is clearly the answer here, and infatuated with his own ego he makes his way through the next few days looking for his belle and surviving off the land in solitude.

His foul mood only abates a little when he realizes how the Gamemakers have placed so many poisonous plants in the fields of wildflowers and berries. It's a grim, pathetic consolation prize, but he may be able to poison someone yet, and at the very least it'll be a trick the Gamemakers haven't seen from him before. He gets to work collecting both food and biological weapons, as well as a few plants he doesn't recognize. Those he takes care not to touch, stowing them inside a sock and figuring he and Molotov may well kidnap someone to use as their guinea pig at some point.

Picking berries makes for a long day that yields only enough to subsist on for a little while, and certainly isn't a longterm strategy. At some point he hopes to find a knife or make himself a spear of some sort, and maybe he can add some meat to this paltry diet. If not, maybe, like a trapdoor spider crouched at the entrance of its burrow, he can lure someone in to share their supplies with him before killing them. It's a very short list of people he would even feel somewhat remorseful about beating to death with a rock.

He sits in a patch of sun adjacent to the field and, keeping an eye out for company, spreads his harvest on the grass before him. He pops berry after berry into his mouth as his brow knits in thought, as he wonders whether Molotov's actually going to make him venture into the mountains to find her.

Comments

[molotov]

Tom might be miserable, but Molotov is in heaven.

The Arena reminds her not necessarily of where she grew up (except perhaps at night, when it's freezing cold), but of more southern Siberia, where she had done wilderness and survival training. She had chosen a hunting knife at the Cornucopia, opting for a weapon over supplies, because she could find food and water and shelter on her own, just like when she'd been airdropped in the lush forest of the taiga and told to make her way to Moscow within three months.

Since the Cornucopia, she's been romping happily through the woods, swinging from tree branch to tree branch like the uneven bars, killing small game and making little fires to cook it. She longs to head for the mountains, where the snow makes her think of home and would give her even more of an advantage, if at the cost of being more difficult to survive.

But she needs to find Tom, and she knows he won't be headed that way, so she sticks to the warmer areas.

It's sunny and her mood is particularly good as she bounces from tree to tree, until she reaches the edge of the meadow. It takes some prowling through the treeline until she spots anyone at all, and she swoops down into the high grasses, using them for coverage as she makes her way toward the warm body. It's either a friend or a kill, and neither seems like a bad option to her.

A hundred yards out, she recognizes the back of Tom's head as he picks over... something, she can't see from this angle, and the smile on her face is predatory as she makes her way toward him, low and dangerous in the grass.

Even with his speed, he can't match hers, never could, and before he could possibly try to fight whatever's rustling in the grass, she's around his neck, burrowing her nose behind his ear and smiling against his skin, hands laid over his chest as she practically purrs, a contented tigeress in her environment.

"Found you."

[pimpcanes]

He thought he saw a flash of her red hair through the grass ten minutes ago, although he was unsure if it was her or Romanoff or another of the bevy of gingers Panem seems to have imported. He waits, assuming one of the others would either pass him by (Romanoff) or announce their presence through clumsiness and carelessness (anyone else).

It's because he suspects her, because he doesn't expect anyone else to be able to move so silently or quickly, that he doesn't immediately try to throw her or to break her nose with his elbow when she sneaks up on him from behind. Instead he twists at the waist and wraps an arm around her torso, meeting her nuzzle with a octopus-like handsiness of his own.

"So you have." His mood already lifts some, although it'll dampen a bit when he sees she's done so much better than he has at the Cornucopia. Her cheeks, rosy and buffed by the cold air, feel like a cool hand to a fevered head against his forehead. "And here I was worrying I'd have to take up hiking to track you down, lass."

[molotov]

She's all smiles, biting his earlobe before pushing her weight onto him, trying to force him to the ground so she can crawl on top of him and sit astride his waist. Her spirits are so high, and she's just excited about all of this, this Arena and having Tom back.

"Don't be a baby." Molotov laughs when she says it, and reaches for his hands, to entwine their fingers together. "I thought about going for the mountains, but I had to find you. How have you been since the Cornucopia, darling?"

[pimpcanes]

He squeezes her hand, letting her shove him down and not even minding getting pieces of grass and leaves in his hair and down the back of his windbreaker. "Devastatingly lonely, without you." He's only turning up the charm a little because he's sure that their reunion is being broadcast widely; they are, after all, one of the most beloved attractions in the Tribute Center these days.

But he can't hide everything from her. "And angry, I won't lie, about the fact that I don't have my powers. I suppose they wanted to make it a fair fight for everyone."

[molotov]

Molotov only kisses the corner of his jaw, knees pressing into the grass on either side of his hips. "They didn't give you your powers because I have mine," she murmurs, still grinning. "This Arena is just Siberia, all the different parts of it. They brought me home, baby. We're going to be unstoppable."

Joy thrums through every inch of her body, practically radiating outward, and she suddenly sits up, glee in her eye. "Oh! And I got this!"

She holds up a gleaming hunting knife, a stray drop of blood from an animal still on the hilt.

[pimpcanes]

"And you've already put it to use, have you?" He places his hands on her hips, letting her sit on him while she shows off her weapon. It's a nice one, a fine Capitol reward for a Cornucopia run.

He brightens up a little, but a stone of anger gathers heat in his stomach, borne of insecurity. While he's all the happier to have her as an ally, he hopes she won't hold that she'll be pulling more of the weight against him. It isn't like with Cain, where each of them brought such equal and delineated skills to the table.

"I'm afraid all I've brought is my encyclopedic botany knowledge."

[molotov]

"That's good, I haven't really eaten anything but meat in a week. Protein is nice but it's getting a little boring."

It hasn't occurred to Molotov that Tom's help with anything but plants and possibly direct killing will be minimal. She sees them as partners until the moment that everyone else is dead -- only then are they pitted against each other. And besides, he took care of her when she was rendered useless in the last Arena, and she would have died soon after him had he not already secured a good enough supply of food.

She can't bring herself to hold anything against him until it's a blade at his neck.

"What do you want for dinner? Rabbit? I can get a deer, but that's far more meat than we really need, with no way to keep it fresh."

[pimpcanes]

"And here I've been losing muscle from having nothing but fruit and vegetables." He sits up again only to kiss her, then lies back on the frosty grass, feeling for an instant like a schoolboy between classes, as if his bookbag should be next to him and she should have a skirt hiked up around her thighs.

It's been a long time since he remembered those sorts of days.

"Are you much of a lover of duck? If you could get one of those, I know a very basic recipe we could make with wild onion and cloves."

[molotov]

If only.

Molotov's hands rest on his chest, one still clutching the knife, and she looks thoughtful as she nods. "Have you seen ducks? Birds are a little harder, but if they've been nesting around here, I could probably grab one while it sleeps. What have you found, what's edible?"

[pimpcanes]

"I have, actually. There's a pond not far south of here, if I've been reading the stars correctly. It would do if we could receive a compass, really." He makes a faint gesture with his hand, but the truth is he doesn't really feel like going anywhere yet. Let them both revel in their reunion, it can't be hurting either of them.

"Eggs and duck and wild onion sound like a flawless combination."

[molotov]

"If we can find eggs. Might be too cold right now."

But that's sort of an afterthought, because she lies against his chest now, listening to his heart beating in his ribs, running her hands down his sides. "I missed you," she says softly, hoping it's quiet enough that no camera can pick it up.

[pimpcanes]

"Point. I've never been much of a hunter, so I'm afraid that part of the change of seasons is foreign to me." His heart is at a relaxed, easy lope, despite the Arena. He's sure other Tributes are stressed or terrified, but here he's practically at peace. As is she.

"I missed you too," he whispers back. "Every moment."

[molotov]

This is probably the most peaceful and happiest that Molotov has been since arriving in Panem, and it's most certainly the most public display of it. She reaches for his hands, to lace their fingers together, and she sighs, closing her eye for just a moment.

"We're going to win."

[pimpcanes]

"Is that so?" he whispers, squeezing her fingers, ignoring that the cold has drained both their hands of color and made their knuckles stand out like chalk. "So by that you mean that I'm going to win, don't you?"

And he laughs, the charmed laugh of a lover.

[molotov]

She smiles and kisses him, biting at his bottom lip with the teasing air that always permeates these discussions. "You think you'll win without me providing for you, Mr. I-Want-Duck-For-Dinner?"

[pimpcanes]

"No, but I think you wouldn't want to leave me alone, hungry and in the cold," he says with a faux-pout. "You'll be too lonely."

[molotov]

"I survived three weeks last time, I can go without you long enough to track you and kill you," she says, adoration in her tone, and squeezes his hand. "Then we'll be back together."

[pimpcanes]

"And I heard no end of complaints about it when you got back. I don't know if you could stand to do it again." He squeezes her hand back and kisses her knuckles. "You won't leave me to die. If I die, it'll be because you finish me off yourself right at the finale."

[molotov]

"I might abandon you right when we're the last two, make it more of surprise when I attack." She laughs a little at how pouty he's being. "After all the weeks together, the break will be nice before I get covered in your blood."

[pimpcanes]

"I'll only be a surprise if I don't keep track of you when you leave. The forest may not be my favorite territory but I'm hardly incompetent in it." He laughs back, cheered immensely by her presence alone. It's almost enough to make this nonsense bearable.

[molotov]

She only nuzzles at his cheek, eyelashes brushing his skin. "I doubt your ability to track me," she tells him softly, and kisses his cheek. "Let's go kill a duck."