{ it surges like a tidal wave || roger + leon || train blitz

[aya]

Jolly Roger's smile is the jolly roger's smile: equal parts charm and danger. Behind his beard, it comes quickly, easily, even when his eyes are as hollow as the pirate skull of his namesake.

He's settled himself in for the long train ride to to the Capitol, wasting no time in his compartment before hunting down his mentor. Better to get on the victor's good side as soon as possible, and easier to corner Leon while he's stuck on a moving train. Victors in the Capitol have too much room to maneuver, too many places to run off to should they decide they have no interest in seeing their charges off to their deaths. Roger knows this because he's lived this, has been a flighty boy on the shores of the fishing district — slippery as an eel and twice as tough to catch. But trapped on his ship, the only escape is under the waves; drowning was only ever preferable to conversations he'd been forced to endure on land.

A systematic sweep of the long locomotive turns the victor up in a sitting area mid-train. The pirate dredges up a smile and cuffs his mentor on the shoulder, forced chuckle melding seamlessly into earnest enthusiasm. Making acquaintance was never hard for him.

"I hope you weren't planning to ignore me, Leon Krigel," he teases. They aren't friends — yet — but he'd be stupid not to suspect that he's at the disadvantage to his district partner when it comes to her cousin's favor.

He supposes he shouldn't be shitty — it isn't as if Preston Garrity had been neglected by the silver parachutes when he shared an arena with Leon's little brother, and the La Torre girl that same year had wanted for nothing. Next to a backpack filled with stacks and stacks of literal cash, the smaller Krigel's own considerable sponsorship haul had looked meager.

Slouching into a burgundy armchair, he places his feet up on an end table, legs crossed at the ankles. He stretches, toes bumping into metal, bringing his attention to a bowl filled with fruit so flawless and smooth they could easily be plastic.

"I can look after myself, of course." He shrugs and rights himself, grabbing a fig from the pewter bowl and taking a large bite. Decidedly not plastic. Juice runs down into his beard, a gob of half-chewed fruit still in his mouth as he wonders aloud: "But where's the fun in that?"

tags - анзие (Anz)

[анзие (Anz)]

Sunlight filters through the window, dappling Leon’s skin and the carpeted floor of the common area as the light rushes headlong into the trees that whip past his eyes. The clear glass, warm against his palm, reflects nothing of his own expression - small favors, Leon supposes, wondering how stricken he looks now after hours of coming to terms with hearing the name Krigel on the lips of the district’s escort. At least here, in relative privacy, he does not need to act.

Leon has seen the segment on the television that covered District Four’s Reaping; they had quite cleverly captured the terror on his face as little Scout flounced up to the stage, never taking a moment to meet her cousin’s eyes. She is radiant starlight, too proud and too smart to show them fear - unlike Leon himself, caught for the briefest moments in the oozing grasp of a nightmare moving in.

At least you won’t be alone at home anymore.

Caesar played up the drama, of course - the Capitolites loved when a tribute was related to someone they recognize, and he’d given them something of a golden opportunity; Leon sat through their false sympathy, but nearly broke the remote hitting the power button the first time they mentioned Nat. (”And of course, with the loss of his own little brother in the 70th Games, you can expect that Leon Krigel will be fighting to keep the lovely Scout alive.”) With his heart thundering in his ears, he retreated to the corner of the sitting area, where the afternoon sun warms the chill from his skin.

The ease at which Leon’s body relaxes to the now-familiar sound of wheels rumbling over metal tracks is both good and unnerving; himself stilled, and the tributes’ lives frozen with him, Leon moves only with the slightest sway of the metal carriage, gaze on the outside world rushing them by. Once again, the Capitol lulls him into a false sense of security. He should be wise to their tricks by now, in the years he’s been carted between Capitol and District to be paraded around as one of their pet victors. The thought quirks a corner of his mouth, and Leon shakes his head at himself. He may as well be collared and leashed.

A bump against his shoulder stirs him, and Leon looks around, confused as he brushes his hair out of his eyes. “I hope you weren’t planning to ignore me, Leon Krigel.” Roger Strangways-Teach says, a sharp smile easy on his face. Leon takes a moment to study him closer, slight intrigue in his eyes. This year’s tribute is - undeniably - handsome, and that would only work in his favor; he’d asked around once the names were announced and the tributes escorted into the Justice building, and Roger had… something of a reputation. At least, from what he gathered.

Leon leans against the edge of the window, one leg dangling over the side, as Roger collapses into a nearby armchair, claiming that he could look after himself before taking a bite out of a fig.

“I imagine you can,” Leon says wryly, gaze lingering - not quite deliberately - on the other man’s strong arms and torso. “But so can others from the other districts. So can Scout. What makes you any different?” He quirks an eyebrow up at Roger, trying to make challenge evident in his posture even with genuine curiosity pulling his body a little closer to the district Four tribute.

LEON KRIGEL

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