Walter Sullivan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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neverinyourfavor2014-10-22 10:48 am
illdrinktothat) wrote in neverinyourfavor2014-10-22 10:48 am
Entry tags:
[district 12]
The day of the Reaping has come as it always does, and District 12's sole victor, Walter Sullivan, is ringing in the event in the manner with which he is accustomed to. That is, of course, by getting blackout drunk the night before and being utterly unresponsive on the morning of.
He doesn't hear the Capitol escort knock at his door. Likewise, he doesn't hear the same Capitol escort come in the house, call out, or stomp his way up the stairs, back down the stairs, and through the house. He doesn't hear Weyoun's reaction to him being passed out in the hallway. He's not aware of anything and then suddenly he's very acutely aware he's very cold and very wet, and there is an incredibly annoyed Trinket standing over him, holding an empty bucket.
Walter sputters cursewords, hefting himself up onto his elbows and shaking his head vigorously - he regrets that very quickly. The room spins, and neither the hangover haze or the cold water are moved any. "The hell is your problem?" He snarls once he gains some amount of coherency again.
"We're going to be late, Mr. Sullivan," Weyoun tuts, frowning, as if there is truly no offense worse than that. Late. How very dare. "Get yourself prepared, please. And no drinking. I expect you to be composed. This is a very important day."
Walter's not to pleased with the authority Trinket apparently thinks he's wielding here. No drinking? Like hell. Still, he clumsily pushes himself up more. "Fine, fine. Just get the fuck out of my house." He blinks blearily at the icecubes on his clothes, the floor. Did that shithead actually dump ice on his head? That's just cruel.
"Very well," Weyoun answers primly, tucking the bucket delicately under his arm. He stares down his nose at the victor for a long moment before turning and making his way back down the hall. "I'll see you at the justice building, Mr. Sullivan."
Walter stubbornly sits in the puddle of cold water and melting ice until he hears the front door shut behind Weyoun. Getting up is a lot more difficult than he'd like to admit; stiff, achey limbs from his choice of bed, the ever increasing hangover... and the puddle. He slips and nearly falls a few times before making it to his feet properly. Goddamn Trinket. Goddamn Capitol. Goddamn Hunger Games.
The prep team and getting ready can wait. Right now, he makes a beeline down the hall for the nearest room, and the nearest bottle of booze. No drinking, sure.
He doesn't hear the Capitol escort knock at his door. Likewise, he doesn't hear the same Capitol escort come in the house, call out, or stomp his way up the stairs, back down the stairs, and through the house. He doesn't hear Weyoun's reaction to him being passed out in the hallway. He's not aware of anything and then suddenly he's very acutely aware he's very cold and very wet, and there is an incredibly annoyed Trinket standing over him, holding an empty bucket.
Walter sputters cursewords, hefting himself up onto his elbows and shaking his head vigorously - he regrets that very quickly. The room spins, and neither the hangover haze or the cold water are moved any. "The hell is your problem?" He snarls once he gains some amount of coherency again.
"We're going to be late, Mr. Sullivan," Weyoun tuts, frowning, as if there is truly no offense worse than that. Late. How very dare. "Get yourself prepared, please. And no drinking. I expect you to be composed. This is a very important day."
Walter's not to pleased with the authority Trinket apparently thinks he's wielding here. No drinking? Like hell. Still, he clumsily pushes himself up more. "Fine, fine. Just get the fuck out of my house." He blinks blearily at the icecubes on his clothes, the floor. Did that shithead actually dump ice on his head? That's just cruel.
"Very well," Weyoun answers primly, tucking the bucket delicately under his arm. He stares down his nose at the victor for a long moment before turning and making his way back down the hall. "I'll see you at the justice building, Mr. Sullivan."
Walter stubbornly sits in the puddle of cold water and melting ice until he hears the front door shut behind Weyoun. Getting up is a lot more difficult than he'd like to admit; stiff, achey limbs from his choice of bed, the ever increasing hangover... and the puddle. He slips and nearly falls a few times before making it to his feet properly. Goddamn Trinket. Goddamn Capitol. Goddamn Hunger Games.
The prep team and getting ready can wait. Right now, he makes a beeline down the hall for the nearest room, and the nearest bottle of booze. No drinking, sure.
no subject
"Hey, Caro! Chad!" He calls out once he sees them in the usual spot, slowing his pace considerably. He hopes they didn't wait all that long - Isshin always holds him up every year, like clockwork - but they had to have been there for at least a little bit. "Sorry," He starts, shifting around a smallish parcel from under his arm and untying it. Jam, biscuits, bits of fruit, nothing terribly amazing inside it, but something all the same. And maybe worth a little wait, hey? "Yuzu made extra."
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"Ooo nice," she says as she grabs a biscuit before Ichigo can even start dividing everything up. She never bothers fixing breakfast on Reaping Day, honestly. It's not until about now she can ever keep anything down anyway. And hey. If she actually gets fucking Reaped, she'll have more room for fancy Capitol cooking on the train. Right? Right. (And right about now, Sado's probably switched which foot is crossed in front of the other.)
Caro could go back to her spot on the wall... but why? Instead she'll stand here a little too close to Ichigo for just standing. That's much funnier. She switches the biscuit to her other hand and takes a bite, and stretches her free hand up to ruffle her boyf-- Ichigo's hair. Almost. Not quite her boyfriend yet. Not til after their last Reaping, that's what they decided.
"What kind of jam did Yuzu send this year?" Sado asks after a moment, finally straightening up. He sounds amused and a little resigned, like he knows perfectly well that Ichigo's about to be distracted grumping at Caro. He's probably right.
no subject
"Raspberry," Ichigo answers, reaching over to hand Sado's portion to him before Caro completely diverts his attention. Not that he's complaining. Soon enough they'll have to go deal with the Reaping, so might as well enjoy it while he can. He'd work on a little payback but his hands are still full of their breakfast. In a moment, though.
"Think Sullivan will actually be awake this year?" The year previous had... not been pretty. The lone victor, shitfaced, snoring and leaning precariously the entire time.
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"I dunno," she says around a mouthful of biscuit, "think he could ever top that?" She pauses to consider. "I guess he could throw up on Trinket's shoes." Okay, that would be hilarious. She'd probably pay money to see that, if she had any.
"He could fall off the stage," Sado adds helpfully. ...That too.
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He's got one hand free at least, now that Chad's gotten his breakfast, so he grabs hold of one of Caro's elbows. "We should probably head over soon. Don'[t want to be late for the big important ceremony." And then he bites at her arm, like you do. As if that's going to help them get a move on towards the Reaping any.
no subject
Sado chuckles and straightens up. "Come on you two," he says as he brushes breakfast crumbs off his hands. "Let's get going."
Caro growls around Ichigo's hand and scowls again before letting go. "Yeah, come on Ichigo. Stop holding everybody up." And now she'll start dragging him along, since he already grabbed her arm and all. Sado's nice enough to walk a little ways behind them, so he can't see the stupid grin on her face.