Of Purest Rage // [Glamour+Winnie+Dior+?]
Sept 1, 2015 22:28:05 GMT -5
Post by Baby Wessex d9b [earthling] on Sept 1, 2015 22:28:05 GMT -5
a note from the desk of
gamemaker
Glamour Kinkade
i can hear the echo ringing in my head
The Design and Aesthetics Gamemaking Department sprawled across an entire floor of the Training Center. Glamour had paced the length of it many times, watched the foyer decor change with the seasons, the cycle repeating annually. It would have all come to bore him, had he not been so very close to that which he desired most. In the intervening years, he rarely had the opportunity to sway the opinion of the Gamemakers. But even they needed help designing the arenas, coordinate the outfits, cementing the theme. Eventually, they needed him, almost as much as he needed them.
In the slow decline that follows the end of any given Games, Glamour found himself adrift. Normally he might have taken a vacation, of a fashion, to visit the previous arenas, or spend a few days in the sprawling pools in the Executive Park. But this year was definitely somehow. This year he could think of nothing that would bring him joy, save the taste and touch of someone who didn't want him. Someone who thought he didn't have a heart that bled and ached and bled anew. There was no healing he could find for that, so instead he found distractions.
He fled the confines of the Training Center office just as soon as he'd tracked down Dior's calling card. His message was perhaps more terse than romantic, with no apology at all for how long he had delayed their lunch date. He chose a restaurant not far from his apartment, snapped his fingers at Winnie on his way out the door. "We have business to attend to. Elsewhere."
Not that Dior could be described as business. The man had pleasure written on every razor sharp ab. Perhaps with a glass or wineor two or three he might be able to appreciate that beyond the aesthetics, beyond the theory, beyond his waste of a bleeding heart.
He didn't wait for Winnie to follow him out of the limousine and into the posh restaurant. He had a table reserved near the floor to ceiling windows, overlooking a snaking river that ran through the Capitol. He nodded to the host that it would suit, and then muttered to Winnie. "I don't want to disturbed by any riff raff. Vet anyone who approaches."
He bent to kiss Dior on either side of his face and then settled himself across from the other gentleman. He reached for the wine list first, perusing to find a bottle that would be appropriately jaw dropping, when he felt a presence behind him.
He scowled at Winnie, preparing a series of admonishments, before he fixed a plastic smile to his face and turned.
The Avox behind him was white gloved, his black jacket pinned with a single white rose. The sight of it wiped the smile from his face, temporarily stopped his hemorrhaging heart. He plucked the letter from the Avox's hands and turned to face his companions. "Well," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He used the bread knife to part the paper, unfurled the formal parchment. The President's handwriting was unmistakable. It was not a long missive. Glamour sat still for far longer than it would take to read twice. It was not a request, nothing that required his confirmation or denial. Yet the Avox lingered.
"Well indeed," Glamour said at last. Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, he grinned his cheshire grin. "We are going to have the best champagne on the menu." He lifted one finger to his lips conspiratorially; a formal announcement would undoubtedly follow. But he saw no harm in allowing his assistant and Dior in on the news, especially as it was delivered so publicly.
He passed the letter announcing him as the Gamemaker of the Seventy-First Games to his companion. If it shook a little as it left his hands, it was not out of fear or concern. He knew one moment of purest rage. All of his letters, his petitions, his begging and pleading. All of it, and he was given one short of what he deserved.
Sixty Second.
Sixty Seventh.
Seventy SECOND.
So close, only to trip at the finish line. Glamour lifted his flute once he was sure his grip was steady. He spoke to the restaurant at large, but his gaze never wavered from the Avox's face. "A toast, to our President!"
In the slow decline that follows the end of any given Games, Glamour found himself adrift. Normally he might have taken a vacation, of a fashion, to visit the previous arenas, or spend a few days in the sprawling pools in the Executive Park. But this year was definitely somehow. This year he could think of nothing that would bring him joy, save the taste and touch of someone who didn't want him. Someone who thought he didn't have a heart that bled and ached and bled anew. There was no healing he could find for that, so instead he found distractions.
He fled the confines of the Training Center office just as soon as he'd tracked down Dior's calling card. His message was perhaps more terse than romantic, with no apology at all for how long he had delayed their lunch date. He chose a restaurant not far from his apartment, snapped his fingers at Winnie on his way out the door. "We have business to attend to. Elsewhere."
Not that Dior could be described as business. The man had pleasure written on every razor sharp ab. Perhaps with a glass or wine
He didn't wait for Winnie to follow him out of the limousine and into the posh restaurant. He had a table reserved near the floor to ceiling windows, overlooking a snaking river that ran through the Capitol. He nodded to the host that it would suit, and then muttered to Winnie. "I don't want to disturbed by any riff raff. Vet anyone who approaches."
He bent to kiss Dior on either side of his face and then settled himself across from the other gentleman. He reached for the wine list first, perusing to find a bottle that would be appropriately jaw dropping, when he felt a presence behind him.
He scowled at Winnie, preparing a series of admonishments, before he fixed a plastic smile to his face and turned.
The Avox behind him was white gloved, his black jacket pinned with a single white rose. The sight of it wiped the smile from his face, temporarily stopped his hemorrhaging heart. He plucked the letter from the Avox's hands and turned to face his companions. "Well," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He used the bread knife to part the paper, unfurled the formal parchment. The President's handwriting was unmistakable. It was not a long missive. Glamour sat still for far longer than it would take to read twice. It was not a request, nothing that required his confirmation or denial. Yet the Avox lingered.
"Well indeed," Glamour said at last. Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, he grinned his cheshire grin. "We are going to have the best champagne on the menu." He lifted one finger to his lips conspiratorially; a formal announcement would undoubtedly follow. But he saw no harm in allowing his assistant and Dior in on the news, especially as it was delivered so publicly.
He passed the letter announcing him as the Gamemaker of the Seventy-First Games to his companion. If it shook a little as it left his hands, it was not out of fear or concern. He knew one moment of purest rage. All of his letters, his petitions, his begging and pleading. All of it, and he was given one short of what he deserved.
Sixty Second.
Sixty Seventh.
Seventy SECOND.
So close, only to trip at the finish line. Glamour lifted his flute once he was sure his grip was steady. He spoke to the restaurant at large, but his gaze never wavered from the Avox's face. "A toast, to our President!"
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[if I ever said that you can work with Glamour Kinkade, hit me up and you can get in on this xD]