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

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?"