where { v i l l a i n s } spend the weekend :: glamour

[Deleted]

[presto]

oh if you only knew what we'd been up to
i guarantee you'd keep it secret
so give it to me now, we're lost in a dream now
do it (five, four, three, two)
o n e --- m o r e --- t i m e

I'd always heard that saying, heavy is the head that bears the crown, but I never quite made sense of it. I don't speak the language of responsibility; that's for pencil-pushers and file-stackers and a life I swore I'd never live again. No, I speak the language of art.

And it's about time people started listening to what I have to say.

For all those fables, I find that my figurative crown feels light as a feather, or maybe that's just the champagne bubbles floating around in my brain. The pre-Games party this year is huge because I demanded that it be so, a celebration of my own personal triumph as well as the collective one that's sure to come. Azure is floating around somewhere in the background, but I don't pay her too much mind - not my first pick of a partner, but we'll make it work - until she walks past me and I give her a scintillating smile in passing. "Azure, darling, great dress. You've got to hook me up with your stylist, boo."

Her dress looks like an old handkerchief caught in a spew of some neon ogre's sequined projectile vomit. Her stylist should be drawn and quartered. I, on the other hand, look fabulous, sequins tastefully applied on the cuffs of a salmon-colored suit jacket and cosmetics on-point, bright reds and electric blues splashed across sharp cheekbones. Oh, yes. I'm good.

And everyone knows it. This is my Game as much as the Arena is, navigating my way through smiles and compliments and champagne flutes, knowing which stares are admiration and which ones are hatred (some of them are both, just the way I like it). This is Jareth Amell's year, and every single sorry son of a bitch in here either wants to kiss me, kill me, or be me. The fact that the request with my name on it came straight from the President's office wasn't missed by anyone, and I've seen my share of green-eyed monsters at tonight's festivities, which couldn't make me happier. Haters make you famous, after all.

I'm so dizzy with self-satisfaction and an admittedly present amount of tipsiness that I almost don't notice when I bump into another form in this glittering, hedonistic horde, blinking a bit in surprise as I pivot, champagne flute in hand. Everyone knows everyone here, but the face sticks in the forefront of my mind, attached to an Arena with grandiose adornments and clichéd ideas, an amateur effort at best.

"Glamour Kinkade! So glad you could make it!" I beam, raising my glass in his direction. "I can only hope my Games manage to come close to comparing to yours. That mausoleum Cornucopia? Inspired."

Tacky. That thing was almost as bad as Azure's neon ogre dress.

[/presto]

j a r e t h c o n s t a n t i n e a m e l l

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

This, this is the only time to be alive.

To breathe. To indulge. To live.

The month before, and the month of the Games. To Hell with the rest. He hadn't quite convinced the President of that, and being a past Gamemaker was its own special form of torture. On the one hand, he had made it through unscathed. They had a victor, a Career at that. Peridot wasn't Topaz Ross, but he looked beautiful in every photo, no matter how dour he wanted to be. So Glamour counted his Games a great success, and had been allowed to move into the shadows of gamemaking, a far less perilous position. But it was not without wants, without desires. He was no longer the toast of the town, the Next Great Thing. He was something past, something has been. It was an illness, this glory of years gone by. It sickened him, from stomach to flesh. The only cure came in the form of bubbly booze.

He plucked another glass off a tray, smiling and laughing and throwing his arms out. He hugged anyone who came within a three foot radius. His gaze ever on the door. Tapping his glass, newly glossed nails pinging, he slowly maneuvered himself towards the entry. The only exit. If someone important managed to slip in, he would know it. He would be there to pounce, even before the victors arrived and dispersed themselves. He longed for that moment, for the glossy baby eyes, for the citizens of outer districts to recognize his power. They understood. Being a Gamemaker, even from the past, it meant something.

He had been god for a day.

But no one had told him that grace could pass from year to year. And so it had, first to Warren, and then on and on until it came to Azure and Jareth. He had no idea what to make of the former, but the latter he thought he might understand. The outfits, the details, the lilt to his speech. All of it so sophisticated, so attractive. Though they both now held the same title next to their names, there had yet to be a social event where Glamour could be introduced. This was it, this glorious night before the Games began. And he was hounded by has-been admirers, seedy fans who would do anything, say anything, for just an autograph, let alone a kiss. He twirled, trying to clear some room, breathe a little fresh air. He kept the flute close, his other arm outstretched, dancing with no one. Dancing with himself.

The song ended. The dance brought to an abrupt halt by a pale stone of a man. Glamour swallowed the last of his champagne, bringing the world into focus. Jareth, he thought, the name like a spell. Mesmerized, starstruck, Glamour beams, empty glass in his hand. "Jareth Amell," he speaks his name, a summoning and a promise. Glamour drops the glass on an empty tray. It wobbles and if it breaks, it is no longer his concern. He leverages one arm, dropping his hand just in front of Jareth's chest. He longs to know if his skin is as cool, as soft as it looks. "Thank you. But you have the advantage of potential. All of this is for you." Glamour looks around, at the copious admirers, the sharks ready to sink their teeth into the tribute prey. He leans a little closer, breath sweet with champagne. "How does it feel to be untouchable?"

[Deleted]

[presto]

oh if you only knew what we'd been up to
i guarantee you'd keep it secret
so give it to me now, we're lost in a dream now
do it (five, four, three, two)
o n e --- m o r e --- t i m e

There's something about the Golden Boy of the 63rd Games that's positively magnetic. An aesthetic appeal is there, certainly, perfect from head to toe in an exotic way that's enough to turn heads even in a city where shock value is the norm. But it goes beyond that. A certain nuance around the borders of his voice, a nubile grace in the way he moves. Like a walking art exhibit. It's a refreshing respite from being penned up for hours on end with Azure's brash, big personality.

"Oh, I don't know that I necessarily want to be untouchable," I reply silkily, smirking over the rim of my glass, the edges of my words thick with implication. "I'd like to think of it as being able to be more discerning with who gets the privilege of touching."

Workplace flirtations. Amell, you old dog. Grinning in a self-satisfied manner (after all, I am, as he said, untouchable), I gesture in the direction of a recently-vacated couch a few yards away, walking over and folding my lanky frame into the supple leather. "But to answer your question, Glamour, I am enjoying it. Thoroughly. Just a few more things left to sort out."

And now that I'm sitting here, mulling it over through the slight inebriation, a plan begins to hatch. Azure and I are going to butt heads over the course of this Games. It's inevitable. But there's one surefire method to get my way in the end, and perhaps it's sitting right next to me. Any other perks that might come along with it are purely incidental. "I was very fond of your Games. A few things I might have done differently, of course, every artist has their own style, but on the whole, a lovely concept."

That much is the honest truth. While a few of Glamour's touches came across to me as heavy-handed, the bigger picture, and Arena of gods and monsters straight out of ancient legends, was quite beautiful. A good set of tributes, a Career victor... on the whole a successful year. The memory is enough to provoke me into the attempt to rope him into my current scheme, something I feel like he'll be more than willing to hop on board with. They say that every former Head Gamemaker pines for their bygone glory.

"I've actually been meaning to talk to you." Only for about a minute, but he needn't know that particular detail. "I need someone with a good eye like yours on my team. First Chair in the control room has your name on it, if you're interested."

Of course he is. I shoot a surreptitious smile at Azure's turned back. Checkmate.

[/presto]

j a r e t h c o n s t a n t i n e a m e l l