Pour a Little Bit Out in Your Memory // [Lemour]

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

He'd waited, longer than he probably should have, to summon Leon Krigel. He had wanted everything to be perfect. It wasn't. He had pushed his staff to the point of breaking, literally. One of the painters had fallen off of a ladder and broken his leg. It was as if he had never pulled an all nighter before. Extreme exhaustion, the doctor had told Glamour. He'd only wished he had pushed him farther sooner. It aggravated him on a deep, core level to see the ceiling mural unfinished, though the rest of the scene was complete.

He toured the indoor pool one final time with his architect. Begrudgingly he admired the wave action of the Olympic sized pool, the fine bubble spray of the rock-lined hot tub, the sandy beach at the shallow entrance. At the far edge, the architect hit a button, and the frosted glass shifted to transparent, offering an unparalleled view of the Capitol at night.

Across the street, he could see into his own bedroom. He left the glass clear when his butler entered with the finishing touch. Glamour took his leave as the butler set up an iron table with four items: a chilled bottle of champagne, a bouquet of white mourning flowers, a brass hand bell, and a simple note in Glamour's hand:

Tonight, and forever more, this sanctuary is yours. This is the only space in the Capitol where I will not come for you. If you wish to summon me, you need only ring the bell.

I am sorry for your loss.

Love,
Glamour

Confoundingly, it had been the send off that had most stumped him. Should he profess such a thing in this letter? But he couldn't very well sign off with 'condolences' or 'in mourning' as he felt no such things. Nat's death was a welcome thing, a simplification of his life. Having Leon grieve was necessary, if not additional insult to injury; even in death, Nat found a way to divide Glamour from his lover. He was impatient for the mourning period to be over, but according to his friends, that would take time. Perhaps as much as a year.

From his darkened bedroom, Glamour watched as the Peacekeepers led Leon into the converted greenhouse. Glamour swept aside his coattails, settling into a chaise lounge with a scotch and soda in his hands. It would be a long night of practicing patience; he could think of no one else for whom he would do such a thing. But then, he'd never given anyone else the power to summon him, either. If nothing else, this was the beginning of something new.

In the dark, he lifted his glass to Leon and his dead brother.

[анзие (Anz)]

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you weren’t mine to save

[attr="class","anziescroll"] Leon's a mess when the Peacekeepers come for him. They rouse him from a state of restless half-sleep with a hand clamped on his shoulder, failing to notice that even with his eyes open Leon's still trapped in the relentless dregs of a vivid dream. In actuality he's only barely aware of their collective efforts to get him to his feet; the sharp words of, "Get up, you've been summoned," fall on deaf ears. He only really notices their presence as they carry him out the door and into the waiting car. "Where are you taking me?" he's lucid enough to say, but their reply doesn't reach him where he sits. Places click by like a slideshow as he's driven past houses and stores and houses again. His mind is blank from the moment the car stops to the time he's marched into the rooftop greenhouse that triggers a memory - though not one of his brother - in his mind. I know more has a price. Is this enough? Leon stops at the doorway, unable to bring himself to step inside. Breathing is difficult, and he's choking on the last breath he'd sucked in completely by accident: it's the scent of salt and sea that should only exist at home, where it's safe - not here, not in the Capitol. He can't go in there or he'll never get out. "You can't buy love," Leon said, lips twitching up in a humorless smile. "But I shouldn't have put it past you to try." He stepped closer to the Gamemaker. "What do you think, Glamour?" He thinks he's trapped needing people he shouldn't want, and wanting things that cannot be; the half-step between entering the ocean's alcove and where he stands is the same distance between here and home - or it should be.  They push him in. "I can't," Leon says, but they ignore him and close the doors the moment his feet touches sand, leaving him to choke for breath on the smell of home.  He stands there for minutes that could be hours, washed over with the sound of waves rushing for his feet, licking at the tips of his toes. If he closes his eyes, if the Capitol fades to black, he could have been home - where Nat wasn't dead and Arissa wasn't mad and Finn wasn't a million miles away.  It's longing that forces him back to reality, when it pressed a taunt on his useless heart. "Think you can love me right?" Like broken glass Leon walks across the sand, leaving a trail of clothes in his path: a jacket, carelessly forgotten; the rumpled button-up shirt slides from his shoulders to settle on his footprints; his trousers hit the sand where the waves end. Leon stands for a moment at the water's edge, toes curling against the beckoning ocean that was his. It hurts, but only a little. He's been ice for so long that the liquid burns when he thaws, and Leon takes a moment to test the waters. Then he sinks down beneath the surface until his lungs burn and beyond, praying for the water to bring him home.

[attr="class","anzieside"] [attr="class","anziehover"] leon krigel victor of the 67th games don’t struggle too much now while I kill you in your sleep

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

There is something wrong about the way Leon lurches into the greenhouse, his casual gait interrupted, broken. Glamour holds his glass tumbler to the edge of his lower lip as he watches his lover stumble around like a toddler. His gaze skitters to the bronze blip of a bell. Leon doesn't get anywhere close to it. He's drawn to the water as he discards his clothes.

Glamour can only approve of his choice. He's watching Leon slip his toes into the gentle waves when the rotary phone at his elbow chimes.

"Yes, I can see him," Glamour says, swirling the glass. "Define strange?" He listens for a few tense breaths. "I'm on my way."

Leon slips below the surface of the water as Glamour rockets down dozens of stories in the elevator. On the fourth floor, there is a glass bridge connecting the two skyscrapers. He's never run over it, never so much as jogged. But he runs now, two avoxes in his wake. A Peacekeeper is mumbling into his earpiece with the greenhouse's building elevator held open. It's been forced into emergency mode, and the white uniformed captain steps in with Glamour and his entourage.

"I'm sure you aren't necessary," Glamour says, his cheeks flushed from the run but the rest of him pale. The Peacekeeper turns her dark helmet to him and says nothing. He lifts his best fake smile to one side, almost smirking, certainly mocking her. He's positive he outranks the Peacekeeper but he has no idea to whom he would report such insolence.

The ride up is the most uncomfortable he's ever been in his life.

He bursts into the greenhouse. His butler has already dragged Leon from the depths to the sandy bank. Half of his body is still obscured by the water, his hair full of sand. Glamour shoves his butler back, his knees coming down hard at Leon's side. He hasn't ever actually performed CPR but he gives it a whirl, pressing both hands to Leon's sternum, his mouth covering his lover's. When he comes up for air, he gulps, "no one is kissing you but me," even in death.

"Sir, pretty sure he's just fine," the Peacekeeper says.

Glamour shoot her a glare and for the first time checks Leon's pupils. Their gazes lock. When Glamour lowers himself, he passes over Leon's lips, whispering into his ear. He puts one hand over the boy's mouth, clamping it shut. Here he is, in the greenhouse, no bell rung, rescuing a boy who is perfectly capable of rescuing himself. His whisper is a hiss. "You always find a way to make me break my own rules."

[анзие (Anz)]

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cross my heart, hope to die

[attr="class","anziescroll"] His body drifts on a gentle current, pulling him closer to shore with every moment he lingers in the water's depth. In the light that shimmers on his ocean's floor Leon watches the outline of some clear sky through navy blue waves, locks of his hair floating as though on a breeze. Breath leaves his lungs in a muted trickle of tiny bubbles from his mouth, bobbing and weaving their individual way to the surface. Down here the sounds of the real world are locked away in the mouth of the sea, the key under the tongue of a mischievous sleek gray creature that chitters at Leon in his imagination. He doesn't chase it down its way, but his eyes track its path in his mind. Here he is alone with the thoughts that sink themselves into his essence, wrapping him in the loudest of noises to speak a singular truth: death lives far beneath the water's surface, and breaking free is taking the hands of the reaching wolves above. The strands of his hair blur in his vision, and Leon knows he's outstayed his welcome as sleep tugs on his soul... He awakens to pulling hands and sand on his skin, a breath catching in his throat as he coughs, water trickling from his mouth and nose to dribble down his chin. Leon's head falls back heavily on the sand, feeling like all he embodies are heavy limbs and tired eyes and a sudden, frantic heart. He can barely focus on the man who'd thought to drag him from safety to the lion's den, so Leon doesn't.  He's barely closed his eyes when there's the harsh breaths of a running man somewhere to his right and lips on his own. Hands struggle to press life into his body, as though breathing itself couldn't suffice. Leon tips his head back to accept Glamour trying, half-shut eyes seeing pride and anger and the oddest look of fear written over the Gamemaker's face. "No one's kissing you but me." If he had the strength to reply, Leon would have laughed. One of Glamour's hands is near his face as he checks Leon's eyes. Leon meets his gaze evenly, silently raising one eyebrow, trying to shake off the haze of exhaustion. He can't afford to lose anything else to this man. Not... not after losing his brother. Not when there is more to lose. But before Leon can say a word, Glamour has his lips on him for a second before he's hissing words into his ear. It's not a threat, but Leon can never be sure with Glamour Kinkade. Tension curls through Leon's frame, and he turns his head minutely to breathe, "I didn't know you had any." With a deft twist of his hips and a spray of water, Leon's settled on Glamour's legs, the grip on the Gamemaker's wrist too tight to be loving, but too loose to be a true threat. Leon's jaw is a hard line shimmering with traces of his ocean. Slowly, deliberately, with hardened eyes Leon drags his gaze over the flamboyant man, before meeting his eyes once again. The boy who lost Owen calls for Glamour's blood.  The man who lost Nat can't bear to destroy him. Leon's voice is barely a whisper the next time he speaks. "Did you think I wouldn't find it? Did you think it would be funny when I did? That I would laugh and keep it as a festering memory for when my brother dies?" He's shaking, but he can't stop that. He can't stop much of anything.

[attr="class","anzieside"] [attr="class","anziehover"] leon krigel victor of the 67th games don’t struggle too much now while I kill you in your sleep

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

The preternatural calm in Leon's flat gaze is enough to send a thrill down Glamour's spine. His breathing is heavy from the force of trying to fill the boy's lungs, adrenaline making the tips of his fingers tingle. He is not afraid of his lover, but neither is he fully in control.

Somehow, by trying to bring Leon back to life, he's relinquished some of the power he established at the beginning of the 67th Games.

"I didn't know you had any." Glamour knows these words, designed to wound. His smirk is begrudging, just the side of: you can do better than that. He won't be so easily baited. Instead of snarking back, he rolls onto his hip, sitting in the squishy sand. This little excursion has completely ruined his silk smoking jacket, but it doesn't matter. He has many others, and could have another commissioned in the exact same style. But now that the gold spoke pattern has darkened to bronze in the false sea, he's not sure he wants another. He's always preferred the original, the best, which is why he's here. It's why he stays, steadying his breathing, even as Leon fires a warning shot, and then goes for the kill.

Glamour's right eyebrow lifts slowly as Leon lays one hundred percent of the blame at his suede-clad feet. He finally has control of his breathing, and control over one thing is all Glamour Kinkade needs.

He dallies in responding. He removes each of the soaked shoes, one at time, laying them above the water line. He buries his toes in the extraordinarily expensive, authentic District Four sand. When he looks again to Leon, his pale blue eyes are nearly a match for the water. "No need to thank me for resuscitating you." It comes off more sincere than he intended; if he started demanding gratitude for every time he saved Leon Krigel's life, he knew he would be shit out of luck constantly. He couldn't cede that much power. "I figured since you frequently decline my gifts, I was allowed to do the same. Or do you deny that you sent the abomination to Nat Krigel?" His gaze is steady but his body is not. His fingertips are trembling with rage and crushing despair as he draws them from Leon's lips, down his throat, over his collar bones.

He's never been so close to breaking, to losing everything. He should stop talking, should order his servants to drag Leon back to the Training Center and wipe him from his memory. But he can not, and will never be able to do so. His voice is thin as a wire, completely unused to uttering such truths, when he says, "you always find a way to deny that I have a heart, Leon. But it's just as easily mangled as yours."

[анзие (Anz)]

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cross my heart, hope to die

[attr="class","anziescroll"] With the rush of words pouring in a tangled mess of symbols, Leon handed power on a platter to Glamour, and power is all the Gamemaker needs to live. Air rushes in and out of his lungs in hissing breaths, Leon staring Glamour down with something that strikes far too close to the bull's eye for his liking. If he thinks too deeply, it might hurt him. Leon can't deny the rise of irritation as Glamour delays his response, as though he knows just how close Leon is to snapping and doing something stupid. Like kiss him? Nat's too vivid image in his mind rolls his eyes, perfect in every way but for the fact that he's not really there; under the thin veneer of chilly calm, in silence Leon aches for the real thing.  How could you? Why did you?  If Glamour had thought, for a second, that maybe, maybe- Sea-blue eyes pin his own, but there's no triumph there. Leon can't read the look in Glamour's eyes, or maybe he doesn't really want to. Whatever it means, it has to remain beyond him or he'll start imagining the precise cut of Glamour's soul, and then the games would mean nothing but the Games would still eat him away. He's never had a soul. It makes it easier, thinking that. Thinking that and imagining all the things that Leon can throw at him as verbal rot, tear him down. When he's done maybe he can slip into the water to let the words spill from his skin and float to the surface, leaving him without a thought.  But all the things he wants to say, and yet there are no words to satisfy the writhing of his heart. "No need to thank me for resuscitating you." Glamour's finger is a singular point on his skin and Leon hates the way his breath catches momentarily in his throat, anger trapped in the knot of air. The finger draws the line of his collarbone, and he's ticklish all over but he doesn't laugh. He veils the tiniest shudder in disgust, but does not take his eyes from Glamour's. "Fuck you," Leon says, heart writhing and the words coming out too much like gratitude to be of any use. "I never... I wasn't his mentor. I couldn't..." I couldn't do it. But it's wrapped in weakness, and he swallows the words. "I didn't send him anything." Fucking Arbor Halt did.  Choice words, Leon thinks to himself, and laughs - sharp, brief. Stops abruptly to catch Glamour's hand in his own, fingers wrapped around his wrist, trying to hurt but unable to break him. Not when he says, "You always find a way to deny that I have a heart, Leon. But it's just as easily mangled as yours." "You don't have a heart," Leon tells him, voice caught in the endless space between his lips and Glamour's ear. "Because then you wouldn't be here. You can't have a heart, because it'll mean that this," he gestures between them, expression giving way to silent acceptance, the tips of his fingers pressing against the pulse of Glamour's wrist, "it'll mean that this is right. It's not. It's fucked up and you're fucking me up." Somehow he's close because Leon can't meet Glamour's eye, words licking over the Gamemaker's cheek like gentle kisses. His whisper sounds like he's pleading for someone's life, but he's speaking the wrong prayer: "You can't have a heart. "You can't have a heart, Glamour, because I don't have one anymore."

[attr="class","anzieside"] [attr="class","anziehover"] leon krigel victor of the 67th games make a move and make amends

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

The soaking wet is starting to get to him. He shifts from hip to hip, trying to find a less sodden place for his weight. It's a losing battle, just like this conversation. "Fuck you. I never... I wasn't his mentor. I couldn't... I didn't send him anything." Glamour tucks his index finger against his palm. He draw his fist into his lap, breaking contact. He can't afford to be distracted by tender flesh while he's passing judgment.

One of the most exciting parts of being a Gamemaker is sorting the lie from the truth. The Game begins with the reaping performance. Is the tribute donning a mask? For the audience for himself? Or is he true to his core, a born fighter or a coward? Sussing that out becomes vital with the Private Training Session, and for a moment, he doesn't see Leon, naked and nearly drowned. Instead, he sees the boy crown a victor, and then decapitate him in the same majestic sweep of his arm.

That was when he fell in love with Leon Krigel's truth.

Annoyingly, Leon had not done the same. "You can't have a heart, Glamour, because I don't have one anymore."

Their conversation is charged, but the water and sand is seeping into his clothes. He knows he should find a modicum of kindness, but he can't. Glamour rolls his eyes as he stands. He yanks a towel out of the hands of an avox and throws it at his lover. "Spare me the pity party. You're here. You're alive. You have a heart, Leon. What you choose to do with it is another matter." As he speaks, he runs a towels over his hands, then over his face. His pants and shoes are ruined and he's so fucking uncomfortable, and there's not a thing he can do about it.

"I suppose this tantrum is part of your grief. But let me remind you that I didn't take your brother's head. That was entirely Warren and Charlie. Do you understand me? I am not responsible for Michel's death. I am responsible for that heart you're so desperate to stop."

He drops the sandy towel, disgust tinging his words, coating his tongue with sour and bitter. "I can't even remember why I care so much when you clearly hate me."

[анзие (Anz)]

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i held on as tightly as you held onto me

[attr="class","anziescroll"] The water is his home, his safe house built out of driftwood and sand where Leon cannot be lost. He's never felt as though he were a part of its greatness, but it is so strongly a part of him that it seems that he is. Waves lapping up his bended knees pull sand and misery into its depths, leaving Leon a little more... alive. The ocean trickles into his lungs and permeates every part of him, forming him anew. His heart starts to beat with the struggle of adrenaline, twisted and out of practice for the days it could not work. Leon sees Glamour with the haze of neither despair nor anger - sees the way he is not a man from Four. To Leon the water is silk, is as familiar to him as breathing  - but the Gamemaker before him thinks it rocks and discomfort and cold cloth sticking to chilled skin.  The difference between them is astounding. "Spare me the pity party. You're here. You're alive. You have a heart, Leon. What you choose to do with it is another matter." There is no hint of kindness nor sympathy laced into his tone, and the rush of resentment Leon feels is accompanied by the strangest sense of gratitude for the normalcy of... whatever this is.  Without bothering to dry himself, Leon slings the towel around his neck and gets slowly to his feet. He's aware of their tremble, the way he feels a little punch-drunk as he stumbles a step inland. An Avox catches him, hands tight around his arm, and Leon gives the kid a tight smile as he steadies himself. Leon expects the next words out of Glamour's mouth to be a jab at his act of gracelessness, or something that would have him grit his teeth and snap back until they ended up where they always did - fighting for power. But Glamour hasn't noticed, spilling instead a truth: "I am not responsible for Michel's death. I am responsible for that heart you're so desperate to stop." Glamour's towel hits the sand, and his next words could have been formed by the ocean. "I can't even remember why I care so much when you clearly hate me." The sharp response ("My heart is not your responsibility.") dies on Leon's tongue. But why? The answer forms in the electricity of his heartbeat: he doesn't hate Glamour. His head tells him that he does, loudly insistent on its report like some overeager fool trying to seem smart. But no, Leon doesn't - hating Glamour would be too easy, and if his life was anything today it wouldn't be easy. Hating Glamour would be avoiding his gaze in parties, brushing him off when he moved closer, doing everything in his power to never have to see Glamour's face again - it wouldn't be furious nights spent in pathetic attempts to win the game they'd started together at the beginning: "Leon Krigel, at your service."  If he wants to win the game, this is not the right time to put on a mask.  "I don't hate you." The words are a struggle to reveal; Leon folds his arms like an act of defense. "I hate what you represent. I hate where you come from. I hate that you watch twenty-three kids die every year and get off on it. I hate everything about you, but I don't. I don't hate you." In the rush of truth at the end, Leon lets slip one more, if Glamour can hear, in the silence that follows: But I don't love you, either. The second silence demands, Why do you care? Taking a slow, deep breath, Leon steps closer to Glamour. "You should take off your clothes. The water would feel better."

[attr="class","anzieside"] [attr="class","anziehover"] leon krigel victor of the 67th games i built a home for you until it disappeared from me

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

The exchange between the Avox and Leon is not missed by Glamour. His gaze flickers between the two. Their conversation is already so heated, laced with everything they have said and everything they have not in the last three years. For once, he rejects the impulse to have the Avox evicted. For once, he chooses mercy for another over satisfying his own feelings. If only Leon knew what great sacrifices Glamour Kinkade made in his name.

"I don't hate you. I hate what you represent. I hate where you come from. I hate that you watch twenty-three kids die every year and get off on it. I hate everything about you, but I don't. I don't hate you."

He inhales so softly at the first admission, it whistles over his teeth. He almost claims Leon's mouth right then, but the boy is quick with his next words. What I represent... now that is a puzzle that even Glamour cannot sort out. To reveal to Leon about his parentage, his life in the back allies, covered in filth and sewage, would gain him a temporary upperhand in this conversation. Where I come from is worse than your beginnings. But he knows it would ruin him, forever disgrace him in the eyes of President Snow. He cannot afford to admit the truth to his lover and simultaneously elevate himself in society.

In the end, he chooses to be the Gamemaker. His eyes glitter as he drops his folded arms. "You're the only tribute or victor I've ever fucked. I am not aroused by death. That is my job. My pleasure comes from you."

Leon closes the gap between them, the truth of Glamour's words lighting his skin aflame. He reaches eager fingers for the side of his lover's face. "You should take off your clothes. The water would feel better."

Glamour's smirk is slow, a piece of theater unto itself. He hooks his fingers around the back of Leon's jaw. They are within centimeters of each other as he whispers, "Nothing feels better than your skin." He kisses him to prove it.

[анзие (Anz)]

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and i'm not scared

[attr="class","anziescroll"] His fingers press marks into the skin of Glamour's neck as they share a single breath for seconds in multiples. Teeth and tongue are commonly their weapons of choice, invading each other's space for dominance - but today on the battlefield they have laid their weapons aside in favor of gentility and fingerprints pushing color from each other's flesh.  Leon finds normalcy in pulling away, his hands disobeying to slide down the arms of Glamour's suit. He lets them fall to his side, breathing too hard to be still. The sensation of the world spinning around him has returned, Glamour bobbing back and forth like some kind of strange animation. The room around them dances in Leon's vision, and he sways - gently, gently... Leon turns away, pressing footsteps into damp sand until he's distances away from Glamour. The glass wall is clear on his end, and his hand finds its chilled surface. They are warm in this space, but outside a storm brews. His hip touches iron; next to him a table sat, champagne bubbling and bell clinking - Leon lets his hand settle on paper. Through his fingers he reads, Love, Glamour. Swallowing, his fingers press paper through the iron weave.  He contemplates mentioning it, wants to say, Love? with the corners of his lips curved up into a sardonic grin - but Leon doesn't want to know what Glamour thinks, much less how he feels. He turns instead to meet the Gamemaker's eye, a challenge as much as it is an invitation. Leon breathes, "Take them off, anyway." f a d e

[attr="class","anzieside"] [attr="class","anziehover"] leon krigel victor of the 67th games and the fever began to spread from my heart down to my legs