{ noise } leon
Jul 16, 2015 18:28:52 GMT -5
Post by анзие (Anz) on Jul 16, 2015 18:28:52 GMT -5
[googlefont="Fira Sans:400;"]
Music is a dizzying constant through the exchange of body heat, punctuated by the shrill laughter of some overexcited woman running her hands over a man so much younger than she. If the overwhelming lights sting her eyes as much as they blind Leon's then he would typically consider it the one piece of fairness gracing his life to date.
There's nothing typical about tonight.
If there is a person who does not reach for him, the sight of their reserved hands are covered by the ones that do - their greed washes him over in trailing touches and his body held against theirs. He's passed around like a pipe to smoke or a bottle between teens, a desired flavour where he's the only one of his kind; if anyone asks, he was invited. He's their pet, their plaything; he can barely breathe through their need to have him for their own, but that's just how it is.
Lips trail over the curve of his ear, belonging to some eager Capitolite so ready to please: Leon accepts the promised whispers, tilting his head with a coy smile to welcome the woman's touch. With the hand not holding the glass of champagne he holds her in some stilted dance, marred by the times he brushes them against the crowd. But she doesn't seem to mind, not unless her wandering fingers mean revulsion or her proximity means digust.
"Come back with me," she says in his ear, and somehow his jacket is not buttoned closed anymore. "I'll make your night so much better." Leon is sure that he drains his glass before he agrees, but when he loses her in the crowd on the way out, the glass is full once again. For a moment he considers the glass, then finishes it in one long swallow that doesn't burn. The glass is returned to the tray, replaced with another. If the lady is disappointed, then she has only discovered a fraction of his turmoil.
Leon's never had the intention of leaving with any of them.
He's pulled into the grasp of someone else next, unsteady legs forcing his face into the man's lapel; Leon laughs freely, laughs it off like it's nothing to be worried about, and the tall Capitolite man laughs with him. There is no truer source of amusement than himself - the grin on his face feels false, pulls on muscles that have long lain dormant, but he can't stop laughing. He's silenced by lips on his own, and when Leon pushes back with all he's got, the laughter dies in his chest with the rest of him.
Before he's spirited away to be made at yet another thief's mercy Leon pulls free with a grin that is a grimace, a hand running solidly over the man's shirt like a false apology. He's swept up in another wave, and the man's reaching hand sinks in its surface.
Life must have had enough of playing with him then, because the wave carries him into the riptide - and for once, Leon wants to face it head on.
The riptide inadvertently pulls the glass from his hand - or maybe he has simply forgotten how to hold on. The sound of shattering glass is the boom of a cannon: the music doesn't stop but the onlookers do.
Glamour Kinkade has his eyes fixed on Leon's face, heat and fear warring for dominance; Leon's image is reflected over that battle, every part of him a mess down the the dark bruise shadowing his cheekbone from an earlier fight and the rumpled state of his clothes. He has to laugh at the sight, but it catches in his throat and sounds like strangulation instead. I'm mad. I've gone mad. Just like that, all the words he thought he had to say have no meaning anymore.
But Leon knows something else that will.
From the pocket of his jacket, Leon pulls a crumpled something from his pocket and steps close to his Gamemaker. Like a true lover he slides his hand into Glamour's trouser pocket and breathes, "Just something for you to remember me by." His eyes flick up to hold Glamour's gaze for a moment- two- "I hope it helps you sleep better at night." Without waiting for a response, he pulls away until he's nothing but the memory of a brief touch, made real only in the tattered square of flesh-colored cloth, seemingly charred beyond repair.
In the confines of his darkened rooms, Leon has his arms curled around his midsection, gasping for breath from the tears he cannot shed. At his side, in tandem with the rise and fall of Leon's chest a broken bird struggles for air, the journey it's made far too long for its battered body - but it knows it's done its job. The message has passed - and with that, it lies still.
Leon does not see. Loose in the false hand that betrayed him, a phone bathes in light both he and a message in familiar writing. Displayed on the screen is the number not preloaded into the device's system, but rather ingrained in his memory. His thumb hovers over the keypad, and the phone buzzes with a notification: Call? it says, and before he drops that too, Leon presses green.
The phone rings once, twice.
Click.
"Hello?"
"Finn," Leon says, and his voice is wrecked like his body is wrecked like Nat's life is wrecked. He can barely breathe enough to say the words he needs to say, not with his gaze drawn to the torn scrap of cloth, every part of it scribbled out with words the author could not find - until his eyes come to rest on the moment the author finally did: You're right - I came home.
"Finn, please, I need you."
leon krigel
ˈkʌl.ər.ɪŋ
there's no coloring around us
there's no coloring around us
While I beat your cold windows
Break the locks on the gate
Break the locks on the gate
Music is a dizzying constant through the exchange of body heat, punctuated by the shrill laughter of some overexcited woman running her hands over a man so much younger than she. If the overwhelming lights sting her eyes as much as they blind Leon's then he would typically consider it the one piece of fairness gracing his life to date.
There's nothing typical about tonight.
If there is a person who does not reach for him, the sight of their reserved hands are covered by the ones that do - their greed washes him over in trailing touches and his body held against theirs. He's passed around like a pipe to smoke or a bottle between teens, a desired flavour where he's the only one of his kind; if anyone asks, he was invited. He's their pet, their plaything; he can barely breathe through their need to have him for their own, but that's just how it is.
Lips trail over the curve of his ear, belonging to some eager Capitolite so ready to please: Leon accepts the promised whispers, tilting his head with a coy smile to welcome the woman's touch. With the hand not holding the glass of champagne he holds her in some stilted dance, marred by the times he brushes them against the crowd. But she doesn't seem to mind, not unless her wandering fingers mean revulsion or her proximity means digust.
"Come back with me," she says in his ear, and somehow his jacket is not buttoned closed anymore. "I'll make your night so much better." Leon is sure that he drains his glass before he agrees, but when he loses her in the crowd on the way out, the glass is full once again. For a moment he considers the glass, then finishes it in one long swallow that doesn't burn. The glass is returned to the tray, replaced with another. If the lady is disappointed, then she has only discovered a fraction of his turmoil.
Leon's never had the intention of leaving with any of them.
He's pulled into the grasp of someone else next, unsteady legs forcing his face into the man's lapel; Leon laughs freely, laughs it off like it's nothing to be worried about, and the tall Capitolite man laughs with him. There is no truer source of amusement than himself - the grin on his face feels false, pulls on muscles that have long lain dormant, but he can't stop laughing. He's silenced by lips on his own, and when Leon pushes back with all he's got, the laughter dies in his chest with the rest of him.
Before he's spirited away to be made at yet another thief's mercy Leon pulls free with a grin that is a grimace, a hand running solidly over the man's shirt like a false apology. He's swept up in another wave, and the man's reaching hand sinks in its surface.
Life must have had enough of playing with him then, because the wave carries him into the riptide - and for once, Leon wants to face it head on.
The riptide inadvertently pulls the glass from his hand - or maybe he has simply forgotten how to hold on. The sound of shattering glass is the boom of a cannon: the music doesn't stop but the onlookers do.
Glamour Kinkade has his eyes fixed on Leon's face, heat and fear warring for dominance; Leon's image is reflected over that battle, every part of him a mess down the the dark bruise shadowing his cheekbone from an earlier fight and the rumpled state of his clothes. He has to laugh at the sight, but it catches in his throat and sounds like strangulation instead. I'm mad. I've gone mad. Just like that, all the words he thought he had to say have no meaning anymore.
But Leon knows something else that will.
From the pocket of his jacket, Leon pulls a crumpled something from his pocket and steps close to his Gamemaker. Like a true lover he slides his hand into Glamour's trouser pocket and breathes, "Just something for you to remember me by." His eyes flick up to hold Glamour's gaze for a moment- two- "I hope it helps you sleep better at night." Without waiting for a response, he pulls away until he's nothing but the memory of a brief touch, made real only in the tattered square of flesh-colored cloth, seemingly charred beyond repair.
In the confines of his darkened rooms, Leon has his arms curled around his midsection, gasping for breath from the tears he cannot shed. At his side, in tandem with the rise and fall of Leon's chest a broken bird struggles for air, the journey it's made far too long for its battered body - but it knows it's done its job. The message has passed - and with that, it lies still.
Leon does not see. Loose in the false hand that betrayed him, a phone bathes in light both he and a message in familiar writing. Displayed on the screen is the number not preloaded into the device's system, but rather ingrained in his memory. His thumb hovers over the keypad, and the phone buzzes with a notification: Call? it says, and before he drops that too, Leon presses green.
The phone rings once, twice.
Click.
"Hello?"
"Finn," Leon says, and his voice is wrecked like his body is wrecked like Nat's life is wrecked. He can barely breathe enough to say the words he needs to say, not with his gaze drawn to the torn scrap of cloth, every part of it scribbled out with words the author could not find - until his eyes come to rest on the moment the author finally did: You're right - I came home.
"Finn, please, I need you."
While I try to forget
I used to be something great
I used to be something great
