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Who | Stephen and Cyrus Reagan
What | A prison visit.
Where | The Capitol
When | Not terribly long after Stephen's arrest; not terribly long before the Capitol's total collapse.
Warnings | None planned!
He should have left days ago. Most of the other ministers are gone. Most of the upper-crust have fled. The mansions are all empty. The Reagans are going inward.
Most of them. One other, at least, is not going. The most important one is still here.
No one bars his passage into the prison. The identity checks are cursory. His skin looks paper-thin in the harsh, boxed-in light, the circles under his eyes are like bruises, and there is a knot in his jaw where his teeth are clenched so tight they creak; but he is unmistakably himself.
They lead him in. There's glass between him and his brother. He almost tells them to remove it, to get Stephen out here; it's not caution that stops him. He wants to be alone, the sooner the better. He's waited the entire trip down here already, and he thinks the wait came nearer to killing him than anything has, even the bomb blast that knocked the gate to the Reagan manor off four days ago.
Stephenus Reagan: Apprehended. Enemy fraternization. Suspected rebel sympathies. It is a mistake. Like the last time: It must be a mistake.
The minute the security door shuts behind him, he says, in a voice that is too soft, too tense, that hangs on a wire in the air: "Stephen."
He crosses his arms as he stands; he shifts; he chews on a thumbnail. He can't keep his hands still. He is not angry-- or, anyway, his anger is still trapped under his exhaustion and his terror, his fear that they did not bring his brother back here whole. Let Stephen be all right. Then there will be enough time to be angry.
What | A prison visit.
Where | The Capitol
When | Not terribly long after Stephen's arrest; not terribly long before the Capitol's total collapse.
Warnings | None planned!
He should have left days ago. Most of the other ministers are gone. Most of the upper-crust have fled. The mansions are all empty. The Reagans are going inward.
Most of them. One other, at least, is not going. The most important one is still here.
No one bars his passage into the prison. The identity checks are cursory. His skin looks paper-thin in the harsh, boxed-in light, the circles under his eyes are like bruises, and there is a knot in his jaw where his teeth are clenched so tight they creak; but he is unmistakably himself.
They lead him in. There's glass between him and his brother. He almost tells them to remove it, to get Stephen out here; it's not caution that stops him. He wants to be alone, the sooner the better. He's waited the entire trip down here already, and he thinks the wait came nearer to killing him than anything has, even the bomb blast that knocked the gate to the Reagan manor off four days ago.
Stephenus Reagan: Apprehended. Enemy fraternization. Suspected rebel sympathies. It is a mistake. Like the last time: It must be a mistake.
The minute the security door shuts behind him, he says, in a voice that is too soft, too tense, that hangs on a wire in the air: "Stephen."
He crosses his arms as he stands; he shifts; he chews on a thumbnail. He can't keep his hands still. He is not angry-- or, anyway, his anger is still trapped under his exhaustion and his terror, his fear that they did not bring his brother back here whole. Let Stephen be all right. Then there will be enough time to be angry.
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None of these things are true.
Sure, there had been a good show of courageous stoicism at first. He hadn't fought while he was being taken in; Stephen had gone quietly, had endured the rough handling of the Peacekeepers, and had kept his mouth carefully shut until he was left alone in his cell. As the adrenaline faded out, though, fear took its place. His situation began to sink in: he was a prisoner of the Capitol, there was irrefutable evidence of his betrayal, and if the Capitol did not fall, there was no way he'd escape execution. He holds no illusions of rescue. Stephen Reagan is not important enough to the rebellion to be rescued. That would be a waste of resources better spent on the battle.
I'm going to die. The idea, once thought, is unshakable; it coldly constricts Stephen's brain and heart and stomach, wrapping around him like an iron band. I'm alone, and I'm going to die.
He'd cried for a little while, and he's ashamed of it.
Stephen's not crying now, though. It had worked its way out of his system, leaving a cold numbness, an aching tension in every muscle, a helpless waiting fear. He's still sitting on the bunk in the tiny cell, knees curled up to his chin, instinctively retreating. His head comes up when he hears the door open, and when he sees who it is, there is a sharp, painful twist in Stephen's chest. Cyrus is both the last person Stephen wants to see and the person he wants to see most, and the guilt and shame over what he's done mingle abrasively with the horror and fear about Cyrus still being in the Capitol. Deeper still, and perhaps most painful of all, is a leaping, instinctive hope: Cyrus has always, always known the way out of trouble. Cyrus has always been there when Stephen needed him. Cyrus had always known what to do. It hurts to feel himself want to rely on Cyrus, want to give himself up completely and blindly trust. It hurts to realize that even after everything Cyrus has done, even knowing everything Stephen knows, when he is in pain and lost, what Stephen wants is to follow Cyrus. It hurts to know he can't, that he and Cyrus are too out of alignment to allow that trust. It hurts to know what Cyrus would do with it. It hurts to know that in reality, that hope is probably a lie, and there is nothing Cyrus can do about the treason charges that, if the Captiol wins, will bring an end to Stephen's life.
He drops his eyes.
"You shouldn't be here," Stephen says, a rasp in his voice. "You should have left days ago. You're going to get yourself killed."
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"And leave you here?" he says. His tone snaps: Unthinkable. He takes a slow step closer.
His eyes rake over Stephen through the glass, searching for obvious injury, something worse than simple fear and exhaustion. He wants to be nearer-- be close enough to pull Stephen in, to check every inch of him for harm.
Cyrus has the sudden urge to call for someone. To stare them down and command them to let Stephen go, to pretend he has that power and dare them not to obey. This is not where Stephen belongs-- not curled up alone like this, not wearing a uniform, not separated from his family. He belongs here no more than Cyrus belongs in the Arena. He wants to grab Stephen by the hand and drag him past his captors like they were children leaving one of their parents' garden parties-- like he'd just found Stephen caught at the mercy of some cruel unsupervised older child. Let's go. Don't cry. They'll pay for this.
"Stephen," he says. His voice is more level; not by much. It implores, Trust me. He does not drop his eyes. "What happened?"
He's read the charges. Part of him hopes for a lie. He wants Stephen to burst into tears, to tell him again how I was tricked, Cyrus!, to look up at him and beg him for help. It would feel like a return to normalcy; make him feel more capable, less like everything important to him is slipping out of his hands.
His hope is fading. But he clings to it tenaciously. He is not ready to watch the world fall apart completely yet; he can live, a moment longer, in a world where Stephen will do (as he has always done) exactly what Cyrus expects him to do.
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But pride rises in Stephen like bile, burning hot and acidic, choking the part of him that wants to keep pretending he's stupid, that he's just been tricked again, that he has no idea what he's doing. Groveling now would feel like a whole new kind of injury, one deeper than the bruises on his stomach and wrists, and Stephen finds that he refuses to do it. He finds that he would rather have Cyrus look at him with helpless fury than with the condescending pity you'd give a particularly stupid pet. Stephen can't swallow it, not here, not after everything he's done, not while knowing the consequences he's going to face, consequences not even Cyrus can save him from.
"I got caught again," Stephen says, and there's a hardness in his eyes, a resolve in the line of his mouth, that wasn't there before. "It's hard, trying to get around the Peacekeepers. But then, if it were any easier, the Capitol would have been overthrown a long time ago."
His heart is beating so fast Stephen's almost afraid it'll give out on him, his own fear killing him before the Capitol does. He's thrown his lot in with the Districts, with the Offworlders, and tied his fate to theirs. Saying it feels very, very final: whether he lives or dies now hinges largely on the rebels' success. But if he's going to die, Stephen thinks, he doesn't want to die uselessly lying or begging or scheming. He wants it known what he's dying for, and why. He wants to be able, no matter how afraid he is, to hold his head up.
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No fury breaks over his face. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't say anything. He stands, his hands at his sides, his heart pounding slow beats he can feel in his ears and his fingertips, and looks at Stephen. Something in his expression seems to collapse inward, like a skyscraper being torn down.
He drops his eyes. He doesn't know what to do with that look on Stephen's face. He doesn't know what to do.
After a long moment-- too long-- he looks up into Stephen's face. "That isn't true," he says, with a quiet, steel-clad conviction. He says it as though he thinks that if he is only sure enough, the universe will reorder itself around him, and he will be right. And louder, harder: "It's a mistake."
He takes two slow, mechanical steps forward. His mouth is a wire-thin line; he can feel an ache beginning in the very back of his jaw. "Don't-- lie to me, Stephen," he says, and now his voice is a warning, one hand going up as though to touch the glass between them and hovering an inch away from it, like if he knew he could do it he'd reach through and grab Stephen and-- God, he doesn't even know what he'd do if he got his hands on him now--
It's a bad question, really. Lie to me is closer to what he means. He's been looking away for so long. Do you know what it will do to me if this is true? Stephen. Stephen, please.
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But both the shame and the fear feed the anger in Stephen's chest. He leans forward, dropping his feet to the floor and gripping the edge of the bench hard enough to hurt his fingers.
"It's not a lie!" Stephen snaps, and his eyes are bright and stinging. "And it's not a mistake! You're on the wrong side, Cyrus!"
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"--The wrong side?" And there's his fury, that's what unlocked it-- it breaks from inside him in a cold wave, floods into his limbs, contorts his face, leaves his throat raw. On the last word he strikes the glass between them, and it doesn't make the bang he wants but only a dull, unsatisfying thud that leaves his palm stinging. "You're going to sit there with four counts of treason on your head, and tell me I'm on the wrong side?" His voice starts low and rises, strained with incredulity, hoarse with fury. "I've always been on your side, Stephen-- always, whatever you did-- when have I ever done less for you, you traitor, you lying, ungrateful, stupid--"
He breaks off. The room, soundproofed, devours the echoes. There are flecks of spit on the glass in front of him; his palm stings more immediately, and he thinks he must have hit the glass again. He lets all his breath out at once and swallows hard, his throat thick.
He can count the number of times he's raised his voice to Stephen on one hand. He's been stern with him many times, especially in recent years, especially as they've grown apart, but he doesn't raise his voice. Not with Stephen. He closes his eyes, and makes himself breathe.
"Stephen." His voice trembles. His breaths come short and shallow and just on the verge of hysterical. "Stephen. There's still time to fix this. Whatever they convinced you to do-- I can undo it." He's leaning against the glass now, fist curled against it, inches from letting his forehead rest against its cool surface, staring into the cell and wishing Stephen were close enough to touch. "It-- it won't be easy. You fucked up, Stephen, you've fucked up worse than ever before in your life--" A short, breathless laugh-- "But if you just-- listen to me, just do exactly what I say-- you don't have to fuck this up for the rest of us, too."
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Stephen had tried not to flinch, when Cyrus's hand hit the glass, but it didn't work. He hadn't jumped, hadn't turned away, but another spike of fear had leapt into his veins, and he couldn't have kept himself from tensing any more than he could have made himself meet Cyrus's eyes.
But when Cyrus says I can undo it, it isn't true. Stephen knows it isn't true, and if Cyrus thinks it is, then he's lying to the both of them. Stephen's eyes snap back up, the anger in them drowning out the fear and dread. The words tumble out of his mouth involuntarily, unstoppable as a bleeding wound. What follows is flung at Cyrus, half furious, half desperate.
"Do you really think the Capitol is going to survive? No matter which side wins, Cyrus, the Capitol as we knew it is over. If the rebels win, they'll dismantle it, and if they don't--well, you know as well as I do, don't you? It's bankrupt, it's degenerate, it's been on the verge of collapse for years! Even if we win, Cyrus, we'll be crushed under our own weight!"
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If he is staring at Stephen like he can't even comprehend what he's saying, it's because this was the one thing Cyrus Reagan never in his life envisioned.
"Stop!" he barks, and Stephen does not stop. "Stop!" It doesn't work, and he has to wait, has to listen to Stephen not listening to him even while he shouts things that Stephen never should have known to say.
When Stephen is through, Cyrus takes a ragged breath. "Lies," he snarls. "The Capitol will survive. They're lying to you, Stephen-- they manipulated you into this. You have no idea what I've done-- no idea what I've done to protect this family, to protect the Capitol--" It's disjointed, he knows it, but he doesn't know what injustice to tackle first, what hurts most to hear Stephen say. "How could you believe them? How could you believe them over your own family?"
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The accusation comes out like the crack of a whip. It's shouted, angry, unstoppable and impossible to take back, but under the anger is bubbling, boiling hurt.
"You let me believe so many things that weren't true, Cyrus -- and you thought, you really thought, that I was too stupid to figure them out!" As Stephen talks, the scale tilts, and what had begun as anger laced with hurt turns to hurt with anger pushing it forward. "You lied to me first!"
There's guilt there, too, oh yes. If Stephen had managed to hold that last part in, maybe it would have been less obvious, but it's painfully apparent.
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He's doing what he's always done, using the weapon he's always used. Stephen has never been able to stand up in the face of his anger. Their fights always end with Stephen apologizing. It's never gone any other way. Cyrus hears that guilt and digs claws into it, tries to wrench it to the surface, tries to regain control.
"Selfish," he says, and now his anger is tinged with deep, deep disappointment. "That's what you are. I was thinking of you. Like I always have."
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He might not have done what he did for his family, but Stephen hasn't forgotten them. In his more calculating moments, Stephen understands that if the Capitol is ever going to fall, it's going to be now. If no Reagan is on the side of the rebels, if no one is there to speak for them, then they'll be treated no differently than any other high-ranking Capitolite -- especially Cyrus. Stephen would be on the rebellion's side because it's the right side in any case, but he truly believes it has a chance of being the winning side, knowing what he does about the Capitol's fragility. He can protect his family from here.
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"You have hurt them," he says. "Regardless of what you wanted. What do you think our grandmother is going to say? Do you think she's going to understand?" He'd spoken to her earlier today; gotten a message from her, from the Reagan safehouse far outside the city. He'd assured her everything was fine. He'd felt guilty about the lie; but he'd reassured himself that it was only technically a lie, because everything was going to be fine. "...Am I not your family, Stephen?"
Betraying one Reagan isn't meaningfully different from betraying every Reagan. Julius Reagan's murderers had learned that.
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Stephen Reagan never learned to disconnect what was best for the family from what was right. He'd never had to. For most of his life, Stephen never considered whether what Cyrus wanted was the right thing to do; of course it was, it always was, Cyrus knew best. Perhaps if he'd been forced to confront the disparity sooner, Stephen would have chosen his family over his conscience and would have already had coping mechanisms and doublethink buffers in place when the rebellion began. Maybe, if Stephen had been a little less sheltered, this would have ended differently.
Stephen has been faced with the same choice as Cyrus: betray his principles, or betray his family. He chose differently.